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When I turn off the tap, I glance up at myself in the mirror and sigh. Not only did I not use any conditioner last night, which is pretty much a requirement for my frizz-prone hair, but all the, erm, activities, then sleeping on it while still damp, has left it completely wonky. The front sections are spiralling away from my face in spastic curls, while the sides and back are all disjointed, crumpled waves that look more like bent pieces of orange paper than human hair.
Oh well. I need to have a shower anyway, after what happened with Elio in his bed last night.
I leave my underwear and pad on the floor, but then think better of it and toss it all in the trash before Elio can do something fucking weird with it. I end up throwing in the torn pyjama shirt too, because with all that ripped silk it looks like a bit of a lost cause now. It makes me a little sad seeing that cheery, pretty yellow fabric shoved down into the trash, like somebody’s throwing away sunshine. But I steel myself against those sorts of feelings. Elio’s the one who ripped it. If anyone should feel bad, it's him.
And I already know he won’t.
Without letting myself dwell on it any longer, I grab the bottles from where Elio left them beside the bathtub and return them to the shower. I turn the tap almost as hot as it will go, gasping at the delicious, punishing sting of heat against my skin. I move my legs apart, letting the scalding water stream between them, and let out a choking sob at the sensation.
For a while, I just stand there with my eyes closed, shivering and soaked under the hot spray. After a while, though, I start to get lightheaded, the steam choking the space so much that it’s uncomfortable to breathe. And while part of me craves the itchy oblivion of oxygen deprivation, I also want to keep my wits about me right now.
Plus, Elio said I shouldn’t do that on my own anymore. Because it isn’t safe. And I can’t deny the fact that he’s probably right.
Not that that matters, I tell myself quickly. He may be the underboss of the Titone empire but he is not the boss of me.
I hate how hollow, how defensive that proclamation feels.
I turn the tap’s temperature down a little bit, and the cooler water helps to clear my head a bit. I wash my hair, then work in what feels like an entire fistful of conditioner to help counteract the roughing-up my strands went through last night. While the conditioner soaks in, I wash my body, gingerly between my legs and harshly everywhere else. I wash my face too, then rinse everything until I feel, well, not exactly cleansed, but at least a little better.
I wrap a fluffy towel around myself and brush my teeth at the sink. Then, I carefully detangle my hair with a wide tooth comb. But I have to stop, because the pleasant tugs against my scalp keep making me think of Elio last night. The way his fingers dug the most irritatingly gorgeous circles against my scalp. It’s actually alarming the way he can both take control of me and take care of me at the exact same fucking time.
Tossing my soaked, half-combed hair over my shoulders, I head for my closet and choose the first comfy outfit in reach – some black leggings and an uber-soft, cream-coloured sweater that I think must be cashmere or something equally luxurious and expensive. The thought of wearing a bulky pad against my clean but stinging pussy is not appealing in the least, so I go with a thin panty-liner in my underwear then pull on the rest of the outfit.
When I’m all dressed and I emerge into my bedroom once again, Rosa is there with her cart of cleaning supplies.
She doesn’t look any happier to see me than she usually does, but she actually says, “Good morning,” to me, which is a first.
And for another first?
She follows it up with a moodily deferential, “Signora Titone.”
Signora… What?!
“Did… Did you just call me Mrs. Titone?” I ask her as she tugs on cleaning gloves with the competent deftness of a surgeon.
“Sì, sì. Signore Titone tell me.”
“But… We’re not married!” I squeak, cringing internally at the high register of my voice. But I can’t help it. Elio making grand claims of our impending marriage is one thing. It’s entirely another to hear other people acknowledging it like it’s already truth. Like it’s already come to pass and not only did I have no say but I also had no idea. I have to fight the urge to look down at my left hand and make sure there’s no mysterious ring perched there, even though I know there isn’t.
Rosa doesn’t seem impressed by my proclamation about not being married to her boss. In fact, she doesn’t acknowledge it at all, she just gets to work stripping the bedding from my bed.
I know it’s pointless, but I can’t seem to stop myself from hovering beside her as she works, twisting my wet hair anxiously between my fingertips.
“Seriously, Rosa. Just call me Deirdre. I’m not Mrs. Titone. We’re not married. And we’re not going to get married, either.”
Rosa doesn’t answer me verbally. Instead, she just holds up the bedding for my inspection. Heat floods my face, and then drains out of it, when I see the unmistakable stains of my blood and Elio’s semen.
“That wasn’t… That’s not…”
Words fail me, and I throw up my hands, wondering why I’m even bothering trying to convince her. She works for Elio. She’s loyal to him. It doesn’t matter what I say.
I could tell her I’d throw myself off a cliff before I married Elio and she’d probably just nod noncommittally and say, “Sì, Signora Titone.”
Rosa shoves the soiled bedding into the basket attached to her cart, and I’m so filled with shame I suddenly can’t face her. She’s seen what we’ve done. She’s seen the blood, the stains. She’s going to be the one to clean the bedding, like those marks never even existed in the first place. And then I feel twice as bad, because I realize she’s going to find the exact same thing on the bedding in the other room, too.
I have the feral urge to sprint ahead of her into Elio’s room, strip the bed myself, and burn the evidence.
But burning anything related to Elio just feels a step too far. I remember what he told me last night, about the relief he felt as a young teenage boy when he covered up his scarred hands with black leather for the first time, and the fight goes right out of me.
