The Luxury of Being Alone with Water

He thinks he’s being romantic by leaving a single red rose on the kitchen counter and an 'I miss you' note written in cursive that probably took him ten minutes to perfect. Cute, really. But while he’s playing out some 1950s housewife fantasy in his head, I’m here under thirty-eight degrees of cascading water, scrubbing away a twelve-hour shift at the firm and the lingering scent of boardroom politics.
This isn't about 'healing' or some spiritual awakening; it’s basic maintenance for an exhausted soul. The steam is my only confidant right now. I close my eyes and let the shower head beat against my skin like a slow metronome, reminding me that time exists even when deadlines try to erase it.
I love him—really, I do—but his version of romance often feels like an accessory he’s wearing rather than something we live together. So here I am in this white bikini, not for any audience but my own reflection and the humidity. The real intimacy isn't in a bouquet or a handwritten note; it's in these quiet moments where I don't have to be 'on,' efficient, or agreeable.
When I finally step out, dripping wet and smelling of eucalyptus, he’ll probably try to wrap me in a towel with that look—the one that says he wants something. And maybe I will let him. But for now, the water is enough.

Editor: Sharp Anna