She stands under the water with her eyes closed and her mouth open, complaining that it is too hot, and I would give anything to be scalded.
Look at the steam. It fogs the mirror, curls up off her shoulders, hangs in the small room like weather she made herself. She waves it away. She does not know what she has. Warm water running down the back of the neck, over the spine, off the elbows in little ropes, that specific animal comfort of standing in a downpour that will never soak you cold.
I used to do this half asleep. I used to do this thinking about email.
She reaches for the shampoo without looking, hand finding the bottle by memory, and scrubs at her scalp with all ten fingers, that scratch, that plain good scratch. Now she is singing. Badly. To no one. The tile carries her voice around and gives it back to her a little grander than it left.
I remember the exact weight of a towel. I remember stepping onto the cold floor and hating it, hating the cold floor, spending a whole irritated second on the cold floor when I could have been grateful for feet.
She turns the water off too soon. She always turns it off too soon. There is more hot water in that tank than she knows, a whole reservoir of warmth she is walking away from to go be busy.
Stay in a minute longer, love. Let it run. Let your fingers wrinkle.
Sing the second verse.