Nothing seems so relaxing to me as it once was. The night is not comforting and the sun does not warm my soul as it once did. He just rises and falls, careless. I understand that is how he is. I leaned back then, though, in the hot water and I felt somewhat enveloped. The porcelain arms of the vessel were too small to hold me as I would have liked. But still I fit with two elegant v-forms rising from the water.
I opened a jar and I began to control my breathing. Deeply in and slowly. The same way out the air went. My lips I parted slightly to allow this passing. I applied cool, grainy sweet-smelling salts from the jar to my rough sponge thing that once lived. Loofa. It was dead when I grasped it there and it gently brushed away from me the dead already lying on my skin, useless. Air filled my lungs and I began to rub the thing against my skin underwater and overwater to a harmony which my breathing and moving formed.
In a moment identical to the one I was in then, nothing is sexual. But everything is intimate. Nothing thrusts or accepts into a squeezing embrace. Yet, you are surrounded and filled and warm and comforted. It can be a spiritual absolution, but it is never religious. You and life touching each other, exuding energy simultaneously.
I pressed closer, then, to one end of the support and lowered my head into the water, facing the ceiling. The oil of the scrub coated the water lightly and infiltrated my skin according to my wish. So not so much an infiltration as an acceptance of pressing invitation.
I breathed deeply then, and slowly. I heard my blood rush and my heart pound. It seemed to echo within that accomodating embrace. My name was called once, twice, three times. I answered and dinner was ready. I began to despise showers as I rose and turned the lever to let the life which had cleansed me drain away. Alas, it had been to long since my last bath.