I admire the curvature of the wall to my right as I wipe my damp fingers over its white, rugged surface, the tiles attempting to mimic nature’s randomness while remaining obedient to repetition, which I notice immediately and admire anyway. I could be in a natural cave, a thermal spring gifted by the earth and discovered through courage and blisters but instead I paid for a hotel room and am finding that this knowledge does not detract from the experience in the slightest.
The bathtub sits away from the walls with a thick, white, roll top and a silver, circular overflow that gargles as I lower my body into water deep enough that my vital organs are sunken in warmth. The amplified complaints of the overflow bother me, and I am in no mood to negotiate with plumbing so I press the small disc that sits flush in the overflow and open the plug.
Baths peak quickly, everything after that is maintenance, so after it empties just enough, I slide into supine, and enjoy my quiet displacement, the warmth relieving my flesh the way a snake receives the first light of dawn.
The taps are not attached to the bath but stand freestanding to attention at my feet, the spout protruding over the bath at an overconfident ninety-degree angle from the base, its military shower hose standing guard over my temperature controls as if anything here might suddenly get out of hand.
My breasts bob on the waterline, but with a deep exhalation my right nipple submerges under the water, on account of my left breast being larger and more difficult to swallow, left out. The whole of my left side is larger: my left thigh, my left foot, which is currently resting on the opposite end of the bath ridge in a manner that suggests ownership. I bend my knee; my left calf glistens as the water accentuates the silhouette of my leg to the point that I arouse myself, I follow up with a sharp inhale.
I command my foot soldiers for a hot top-up and watch as they aerate the water into a cloudy stream before I knock the tap with my big toe and the noise cuts cleanly.
The bathroom in which this bath doth stand is exquisite. A floor-to-ceiling dark walnut doorway opens into a room of porcelain sinks, milky granite tops, and pearlescent light-ringed mirrors. The doors do not swing; they slide, soft close, nothing slams here, which I find deeply reassuring. Glossy grey wall tiles reflect the ceiling’s recessed lighting without distortion.
I love the hotel’s invisible systems, air moving without sound, light without a source. I imagine it could be moonlight as I lie back in a curved section of the bathroom where the rectangular plan softens into a semi-circular alcove. Two frosted glass doors opposite remind me how things ought to be, the toilet separate from the shower, boundaries respected.
My hands grip the edge of the bath to keep my fingertips dry, I had not expected to respect plastic, but it holds heat well, better than the Victorian impulse to let warmth leach away. A bath should never be part of the fixtures and fittings; it deserves to be designed around.
I am sweating now, which seems counterproductive to washing, unless baths were never meant for cleansing and we have all been pretending otherwise.
I rest my head on a black, waterproof cushion, its sole purpose being my relaxation, a clarity of function I admire. My hair spills over the rim in a golden cascade, darkened by damp, and I am reading about beasts, discipline, and masculine confidence.
I want to read more fiction, to lighten my mind, for escapism, but this American author bothers me in the same way the overflow does when I shift my weight. If fantasy is supposed to absorb me into another world, then why does this one read so familiar. Women can have “the balls” and you can still insult people by telling them “to go to Hell” with a capital H. I close the book and drop it onto the floor, sink my shoulders, and let my mind wander somewhere more productive.
I think about what discipline would actually look like in my own life, what I could achieve if I split 2026 into three blocks of four months. Four months is about as long as I will wait for anything. Long enough to attempt something properly. Short enough to admit when I have failed. Over the next four months I imagine riding a horse. I want to tickle the ivories, even badly. I want to live somewhere with a sea view. I think about how long it has been since I last had a bath and how easily I put things off, even things I enjoy.
These thoughts arrive while I am meant to be relaxing, so I submerge my head under the water and try again, briefly believing this might solve something.
The water is clearing; whatever sulphates or laurates have creamed it are dissolving into me. My pubic hair is now glowing from beneath the surface. I am feeling restless. Most people can’t sit with themselves for ten minutes; I have been here for forty-five. I sigh and shift my body, my heel squeaks against the sides of a bath I will never have to clean and this alone feels worth the room rate.
I do not know why keeping my fingertips dry feels like an achievement, but it does, so I stop wriggling, monitor the surface as the reflections steady and appreciate the romantic aesthetic my presence creates.
The brand of this bath is sending me subliminal messages as I stare at the waterline and remember that time in Africa. I worked for an Assay House servicing the mining industry. I once took a speedboat around a large vessel moored in port, conducting a draft survey by watching where the hull kissed the water and measuring the weight of the cargo by its displacement. I remember returning to the bridge to open a huge book of formulae, producing a figure for the weight of mineral concentrates, usually lead or copper. The cargo would be sold and resold many times before reaching its destination. The work was technical, interesting at first but morally empty.
Using the same logic now, watching the waterline settle around my body, I deduce that I have gained seven kilos here in China, eating well and sitting still. Twelve hours a week of Mandarin for four months and no regular sex. I took up badminton instead, but shuttlecocks are no substitution, and I resent having to clarify that. I am a naked numerologist and 39 in a few days. 4-7-12-39. The water holds the only proof, so I stand up and defy my own maths, because numbers should never be allowed the final word.
I turn the shower on using the bath hose and let the coolness cut through the steam. Ripples travel the length of the tub, bending the reflections of light until I step out onto the waiting bath mat, thick and steadfast beneath my feet. The bath returns to an object, its lips still warm from containing me. I tiptoe across the floor to fetch a towel, even though I could drip dry, because I like the cotton whiteness against my skin and the way it sets off my eyes.
I dry myself slowly, my attention fading along with my enthusiasm to describe this experience any longer, which feels like a sensible place to stop.
majorloveme 