She was now the owner of a bathtub that had become a permanent architectural feature of her home’s upper level.
The tub never moved again. But every Sunday, Lena filled it with warm water and a splash of eucalyptus oil, climbed the ladder, and soaked while looking down at her living room. From that angle, the ceiling fan looked like a slow-motion helicopter. The goldfish drifted past her knees. And somewhere deep in the floorboards, Horace’s ghost—if it existed—probably laughed. bathtub stuck
Lena peered into the crawl space below. Through the jagged hole in the floor, she could see the living room ceiling. Specifically, she could see the ceiling fan spinning lazily directly beneath the bathroom. She was now the owner of a bathtub
And now, as Lena pried, the tub was not lifting. The floor was lifting with it. From that angle, the ceiling fan looked like