I washed the tub.
I ran the water and added the lavender and vanilla bubble bath, and a few drops of peppermint essence.
The hot water ran out less than a quarter filled.
So, I waited.
Studied for an upcoming test, and got a little blue.
Maybe the hot water has come back.
So I gave it another go.
More bubbles, more mint, and a smidgen of epsom salts.
I disrobed and dipped one foot gingerly into the hot water.
Good to go.
All the way in.
I scratch my legs and my ankles. It’s always the first thing I do in a bath. I’m not sure why.
My thoughts flickered one after another, never pausing to let me see things clearly.
I decided to try a solo guided meditation. Maybe this environment is more conducive than a hard-backed office chair.
I started at my toes and gave them a little wiggle.
I concentrated on that sensation. What was I feeling?
A slight throbbing in my heels where they rested against the tub’s edge.
My mind moved upwards.
The water’s edge hit me at mid-calf and the foamy bubbles clung to my skin another three inches (or so).
A prickling on my knees where the soapy water was drying out gave way to more foaminess as I started down the other side.
I get distracted by an itchiness attacking my hairline.
Tiny bubbles are crackling around my head. I listen.
My face peeks out above the water and bubbles wrap around my head.
Knees bent, I place my feet flat on the tub’s bottom, my hands under my bottom.
Now I am steady, and I can hear with my ears just below the water.
My fingers thrum from the steady pressure of my weight.
I hear it.
A pulse pounds in my ears. I feel it in my chest. I see it where my tummy protrudes from the water.
I am annoyed at this tiny apartment bathtub seemingly meant for children.
My breath interrupts the pulsing calm. It sounds alien together. How strange, because breathing and blood circulation happens together all the time.
I hold my breath.
The sound merges into a more foreign one as my breath involuntarily spills out in tiny puffs.
I feel my chest rise, and my lungs expand.
I feel the blood rushing in my ears.
It rivals an ocean’s roar.
I’ve had enough.
I flip over to my belly.
I blow holes in the sheet of bubbles and a chunk flies into the wall beside me.
It fills me with a strange unexpected happiness.
My breasts are effortlessly suspended in the water.
My hair floats just under the water’s surface. I see one or two floating away from me.
I’ll get them later.
I feel the weight of my hair. Three times heavier with the filmy, soapy bubbles.
I hope there’s enough warmth left in the water heater to rinse it well enough.
I turn on my back again and flick my ears to hear the twang.
I scratch a spot on my scalp. It feels good.
I, very rapidly, scratch around my scalp.
I like the sound it makes underwater.
I hear the downstairs neighbour puttering around, running water and opening doors.
Doors to what, I can’t be sure.
It’s time to get out. I’m wrinkled.
I pull the plug and scratch the soles of my feet vigorously.
Epsom salts always make me so itchy. And thirsty, I’m so thirsty!
The water drains from around me.
I stand up and pull the shower curtain closed.
It’s so loud. Is it always this loud?
I run the faucet again, I pull the knob to switch it to shower mode.
The water is not very warm, but I start to rinse my hair anyway.
I decide to brave some conditioner. Bubble bath, peppermint essence, and salts are very drying for the hair.
It’s so chilly. I am chilled.
A warm robe awaits.
I am dry.
I am wrinkly.
I am squeaky.