I’m Just Going to Write – V
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Our friend in the yellow pleated tulle skirt gets home late that night. She peels the linen flats from her feet, wiggles out of her skirt and the sweat of the day, walking up the stairs to the bathroom. Her top comes off, and everything else, leaving a trail, until she is standing naked in the full length mirror. The tub fills with water while she grabs at her belly flesh, strokes her thigh. She comes closer to the mirror, checking her jawline for sharpness and stray hairs. She smiles at herself. I’m proud of you, she projects into the mirror.
She tests the water before sitting in the tub, pouring in her pink salt rocks and eucalyptus oil. Lavender. Sage. Sandalwood. She leans back, stroking her skin. Then, fondling herself. Massaging the joy she wants into every reachable nook of her femininity. Bends her back. Stiffens. Releases a flow. A loud sigh. She carries the salt water with her hands, over her shoulders. Her chest. Her head. Her face. Pats her hands with the nearby towel and grabs her book from the floor.
From Odes of Solomon, she reads silently:
There is no hard way where there is a simple heart,
Good thought finds no wounds,
Nor is there any storm in the depths of illuminated thought.
Surrounded on every side by the beauty of the open country,
one is free of doubt.
Below is like above.
She repeats each line in her mind three times. Then seven–pressing a different piece of her flesh for each line. She builds on each line, repeating pairs and then threes, until she has memorized the scripture.
She rests. It’s tempting to go into her husband’s room. A good pressure would relieve her of all wonders. But she decides to push forward. She has asked for some time apart. She must honor that. For herself. She lifts out of the tub, wrapping herself in terry, strolling to her own room.
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