The Tub

Picasso was a painter and the girl was a bather. It was second nature-to take her weary bones to the bath and soak there. It was something of a joke. She was late for dinner dates, pruny during board meetings. It wasn't a sexual act, though it was sensuous, and it wasn't neurotic. She loved the ritualism of it. She closed the old wooden door behind her and turned on the faucet. As the water rushed from cold to hot, she stood testing the temperature with her toe. When it was warm enough, she put the plug down. Then she undressed, throwing clothes onto the couch. She eased herself into the flowing water, and eventually crossed her legs, too long for the tub. The only inconsistent variable was reading material. It depended on her mood really. If she was frisky, than Vanity Fair, or Glamour, or Hemingway, or the daily horoscope. If she felt ambitious, the Economist, the comics section, a book of recipes. Her mother would speak to her from the other side of the door occasionally. If she was feeling charitable, she would respond. If not, the water rushed on, on and on.