This is an old piece. Roughly 2 years old. I’ve not touched it really since then, but those in my Google writing group ask me on a regular basis if I will ever “finish” or add to it. I thought I would share it and see if there was anything special about it to those outside of the group.
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I just kept seeing this scene play out in my head and I had to get it out somehow. Pardon any errors or wording. It’s been a while and I’m just copy/pasting.
He sat there, or rather, lied there in the shower. Could he fully
extend his legs, he would, but the tub proved to be too short. So, he
was left to lie there, fully clothed, sitting, thinking, sleeping,
doing nothing except letting water tickle his sweater. He was now
soaked completely through, water seeping into the threads coursing its
way to the basin where it accumulated all around him.
.
“I am a rock. I am an island,” he thought, halfway laughing at the
absurd analogy of Mr. Paul Simon to his current situation playing out
in a lonely apartment tub. He sought to drown every emotion of his
lonely island nation.
.
No. He wasn’t particularly willing anything to work. Just the thought
of any action that would result in him doing work in the simplest of
societal definitions of the word. “Work” was the very last thing he
wanted to do, and yet it was the very first obstacle to be faced
beginning every Monday through Friday. Friday? This week? Maybe
not…
.
“Maybe I’ll go to the beach.”
.
“Hi.”
.
He turned his gaze from the poker-faced faucet of the bathtub to the
entrance of the bathroom. She was leaning against the doorway in a
white tee and brown, cotton pants. Her hair was straightened today
and pulled back in a whatever tiny ponytail her length would allow.
The temperature suddenly changed as she stood in the doorway.
.
Stumbling for his words, he managed to dribble.
“I was just- I kinda…What are you doing here?”
.
“You tell me what you’re doing in the tub…With your clothes on.
Staring at the faucet.”
.
She started to speak again, but she trailed off. Her words were lost
in the steam. They lost their meanings as they drifted to the floor
wet with condensation. A cool breeze made its way in to the bathroom
where it began to wipe away the vapor from the mirror, exposing her
from another angle. Few words were said at this point, but a barrage
of mutterings were exploding in his brain. His jaw hung slack for a
moment. Catching himself, he clenched his mouth shut.
.
He had walked her out the door this morning to her car. She was
supposed to be on her way home to change for work. She had stayed the
weekend with only what she wore the previous Friday night and the
exception of his clothes. They never left.
.
She bit her lip and looked him over for what seemed to be too long.
She brought her arms up, criss-crossed, pulling at her shirt. The
pony-tail found its way to let down in the process of her pulling her
shirt off. Hair fell in her eyes, still biting her lip, she glanced up
as she placed a delicate hand to the small faux bronze button of her
pants. A soft sound of release could be heard over the static roar of
the water. Metal separating from fabric. The slow moan of her zipper.
On the way down, teeth gave way to sky blue boy shorts. She slipped
each leg carefully out of her pants and stood yet again, staring.
He wasn’t even thinking about questions anymore as she stepped closer
to the edge of the tub. He could see the muscles beneath her soft
skin work to move her closer to him with a calculated fluidity
comparable to the very water he was drowning in.
She stepped into the tub.
.
“Fuck me…” he sighed. It was a sigh of frustration more than a
diminished declarative statement. Either interpretation worked for him
at this point.
.
She bent down and knelt on her hands and knees face to face no more
than maybe three or four inches, staring with eyes held half open. Her
tongue danced behind her teeth.
.
“Get up,” she said and began to stand back up pulling at his hand. The
water gave his clothing an added weight and awkwardness. He was now
wearing chain mail.His Her hands traced his arms up to his shoulders
and down again to his waist where she began to relieve him of his
armor. Both of them exposed. Standing. Swallowed in the rain. The
water made its way through her auburn hair, down the slopes of her
shoulders, merging into a single stream
between her breasts. It then continued coursing its way down the cut
of her abs until interrupted by the only sign that she was, in fact,
not a goddess <but close?>. But still, even the interruption was
fluid. Perfect. Expected.
