So I’ll try not to notice the lint on the side of the tub. And I don’t really. And I don’t really notice the grout on the tiles, or the rusty discolorations under the shampoo bottles or the nasty corrosion under the spout. It might be better if the spout weren’t corroded, if the spout gleamed; it might be better if the tub were resurfaced; and as far as that goes, it would be nicer if the tub were bigger, twice as big say. But I don’t really notice these things. The water is hot. My skin is pink. I sink into the foam. It smells like milk. I splendidly disconnect in the blank white light of my bathroom.

It’s not nearly about being clean. There is no particular need for me to be clean. It’s the place where I relax the fastest. I arch and unarch my back and create my own waves, create my own rhythm. I stick my legs up and sink back into the water. I plug my nose with my hand. The water gurgles in my ears but just for a moment. It’s better than sleep. It’s better, after a tiring day, than crawling into my bed. The water over me sends me far away. Everything is stopped. When I lie still I can feel my own heart beat. I keep myself there, breathless, as long as I can stand it. I emerge, soap over my head, disappointed for my return.

I’m away from the buzz, from the electric hum, from the information leak. I am just a boy naked in the bath.

I scoop the soap out of my ears with my fingers. I wipe the foam out of my pink face with my palms. My hands are wrinkled. I massage the loose skin on the pads of my fingers. Are these my fingers? Are these my hands?

Murphy comes to see what I’m doing. Head just above the water, I open my mouth wide and breathe in until I raise a seagull squawk. Murph tilts her head, interested, confused. I like her crooked head and I do it again. And again. This time her front feet dog paddle at the slippery floor as she attempts uselessly to back away. I can’t stop my smile. She backs herself out of the bathroom. I look up at the ceiling, so far away from me. Murph peaks back in. And cautiously approaches. I want to tease her some more but I can’t bring myself to do it. I put my hand up on the side of the tub deliberately.

Murph steps up and licks it, licks up the soapy water off the tub. Perhaps I shouldn’t encourage it. But it’s just bath foam and water. And for some reason Murph loves to lick it up. It’s like tea time for my dog. She just gets a little bit. And it doesn’t seem to do her any harm.

I flick her with water on my hands. She jumps back. She doesn’t like that. I raise up one more squawk. Murph cocks her head and looks at me inquisitively but tentatively. It’s a brilliant look.

Eventually, I step up and out and towel myself off, cleaner, but that was never the point.

SS