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.
I listen.
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 listen.
I feel.
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.
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