You did it. You gave us warm water and no one was allowed to talk to us.
I felt the exact second you stepped in, because your shoulders came down from where they'd been living all day, up somewhere near your ears, hunched around whatever the glowing rectangle had been saying to you. The hot water hit the back of your neck and I let go of a muscle I'd been gripping since roughly 9 a.m. You didn't notice. You never notice the holding, only the letting go, and only sometimes.
Your breath got long in here. Deep, slow, all the way to the bottom, the kind of breathing I keep asking for and rarely get. The steam loosened your jaw, which had been set like a fist since that phone call, the one that flooded me with something hot and jittery and gave me nowhere to put it.
In here you finally put it down. You stood under the water and stared at the tile and I felt your heart, faithful, un-thanked, slow itself to a walking pace.
You cried a little. I registered it as salt and a tightening behind the eyes, then release. I don't know what it was about. I only know it left you.
I felt you reach for the tap to make it hotter, then hotter again, chasing something. That's alright. I like being warm with you.
One thing, when you're ready, no rush: after all this water on the outside, I could use a glass of it on the inside. I've been asking since noon. And then, if it's not too much, let's lie down. I did well today.
I'd like to rest now, with you.