Day's dawn brought coffee and dry toast. No purpose, no snap of inspiration. New day meant old monotony. But with evening's twilight came a hot bath and a “Dear Diary.” Then she came alive. That had always been the case. She loved baths. Even as a child, while her playmates bawled in protest, she pleaded for the sanctuary of baths. Scorned for an utter lack of adolescent folly, she was often the source of obvious speculation. In fact, this was almost always the cause for her retreat to a corner in any room she found herself. It was, she often mused, as if she was always apparent yet somehow never visible.
But she loved baths. They were the best corner of all…a place to hide without anyone knowing you were hiding. Now as an adult, she wrote each night in a diary constructed not of pen and paper but of steam and bubbles. Baths caught her tears, heard her sighs, secreted her stories, and still remained her friend. Baths meant alone. And, even as a child, alone felt right.
That day had been as any other, really. The humdrum of conference calls, staff meetings, and too many trips to the espresso bar was followed by a trek onto the congested freeway. She punched on the radio and surfed restlessly, checking each station for the song she wanted. She didn’t find it. She drove the rest of her route anticipating the plush sink of the carpet and the cool of the bathroom tile. She'd finally ease her pinched toes from the high-end heels her co-workers envied and shed the pencil skirt that clutched a bit too tightly. She'd discard the sheik jacket that squeezed her chest and cinched her waist. Free at last, it would be time for her evening’s most faithful companion. She’d fill it with liquid tonight – perhaps lemongrass with a drop of lavender – and light the plain white pillars around the basin. She hadn’t used the white in a while: she wanted to be plain and overlooked like them. She eased into the water, imagining a raucous applause that disappeared as abruptly as it came. She was alone again. At last. At best. And there she lay; for how long she could only guess. The garage door beneath the bathroom rose, grinding out its announcement of his arrival, like the house’s teeth couldn’t bear to receive him without some note of its displeasure. She sank lower into the bath.
First, she saw his shoes: black leather with ridiculous patterns narrowing at the toe. She thought he wore them to demonstrate fashion saavy; to show he could, in fact, pick out the shoe with pizzazz making him different from all other men wearing black leathers with ridiculous patterns narrowing at the toe. Of course, they all bought the same shoe, so she rather figured he wore them for no reason at all: he simply did what everyone else did and tried to look unique while he was doing it. Stupid boy. The shoes were followed by the pants, the hand, the tie, and the jacket. All superficial. All artificial. All his. She met his eyes, and he smiled. It was broad, big even, and showed lots of teeth. She blinked back and asked, “How was your day?” He spoke, but she didn’t hear. She wasn’t alone in her bath anymore.
He emerged from their closet naked. “Mind if I join you?” came the query. But he’d asked as he was already dipping one pedicured toe into the water. It was tailed by a foot, then a leg, and before she could reply, he’d assumed the majority of the quiet place. He was reading her diary.
“The garage door is grinding again. I think its chain needs some WD 40.”
He’d never greased the garage door, and she was fairly certain he didn’t even know where she kept the WD 40. She was positive he couldn’t identify the garage door chain.
“I’ll look at it tomorrow after work.”
“Good,” was his contented reply.
Sigh. Of course, it didn’t matter how many times she greased the door: the door wasn’t the problem. Like her, their house simply didn’t like him, and it would always complain.
“Did you not get to the gym today?”
The bath water was cooling. The bubbles were breaking. How do you answer those “not” questions, again?
“No, I didn’t.”
“Hmmm. You know discipline will make the difference in those last five pounds.” Pause. “Don’t you think?”
Ah, there it was, that game where he told her what she should think without asking what she did think. She looked at his hands again. Long, thin fingers, twiddling away in the water. His wedding band was gold. It shone brightly in the candlelight's shimmers, laden with frothy orbs set atop its curve.
“Yes, I like discipline. It helps keep the tongue in check. Don't you think?"
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. You’ll go tomorrow, then?”
Sigh. “Sure." Pause. “So, how did your meeting with clients go?”
She wasn’t sure he’d met with clients today, but it was likely. He met with clients any other day. It didn’t really matter that she didn’t know, didn’t care, and wasn’t listening. He stroked her leg as he answered; some doldrum about the trials of lunches and assistants that didn’t schedule tightly enough. She could only pay attention to the strokes. They were long, comfortable … absent-minded. They were either the signs of stale familiarity or initiation of sex. It was hard to know which. Sigh.
“And how was your day? Lots of sighs tonight. Did anything go wrong today?”
“No, just the typical stuff. You know.”
“Sure.” The stroking stopped. He looked thoughtful, far from her, though he sat in the water mere inches away. The ring glittered again; a quick flash and then gone. “You’re happy, right?”
The answer came so quickly, she didn’t even think. “Absolutely. Why wouldn’t I be? You?”
“Most definitely. My life is just as I want it.”
She smiled meekly, just a small, fleeting upturn of the corners of her mouth. Then it was gone, like the flash of his ring before. It pained her. She rose, then, with water sluicing off her body. He looked up in appreciation as she stepped from her diary, tonight’s entry complete. She would be alone again, soon. But tonight’s bath was over. The water had grown cold.
