I watched her shower. I was in the shower with her
though she did not see me there. I had watched
her tug off her raiment: red halter, black shorts,
tempting silk panties, aged yellowed socks.
A forgotten coral necklace dangled limp
as she bent over, laying a towel down next to the empty
stall. Unconscious of the smooth drift of her stomach
and the arch of her breasts. I stood witness
to unkempt, morning, wakeful beauty and
she would never know. Her eyes only
mirrors, harsh light, stinging criticisms. Glance
into the dark, tiled room. So secret, so
quiet. She turned the knob, letting out a gush
of white noise, stood on her toes and
raised an arm, like a bow, to adjust the stream.
She pulled her hair behind one shoulder, twisted
into a knot, a promise, slipped her finger free of
splintered hairs. When she stepped in, I held
my breath, which wasn’t there, and choked
on emotion as water slid over her like
tongues. The mix between her light smell
and hot water and dreams and mystery made
me dizzy, my head full of steam. There was no
artifice. Just her smooth silhouette
cut in the crystal water. Boundless.
She turned to confront the stream, and I
watched. In anticipation. It was all for this
moment. She bent her head, slightly, and
leaned into the stinging water and leaned
her head back. Water slicked her face and
dripped into her mouth. Would that I could
have followed. She brushed away the raindrops,
up and into her hair, raking her hair back. That
moment. That perfect moment. Everything
washed free and clear and no insecurities staining
her face, a rush of freedom that flicks her hair and
drifts down her back. Along with it, I fell down,
into the puddle at her feet, and spiraled around
and tumbled in the drain. I looked up at the
soles of her feet, sturdy, callused, fitting.
