She huffs. It is the first time I have heard her huff. The sound is small and a little tired and she smiles at the table after she makes it.
"Bath," I say.
"Bath."
---
I run the bath hot.
I kneel by the tub with my elbow in the water until the mix is right. The water is deep. I add a measure of the eucalyptus salt from the shelf over the sink, the small blue jar a friend gave me that I have not opened in a year. Fresh. I pull two candles down from the shelf, pillar candles, cream, unscented. Not romantic. Not staged. Light. Something to read her face by when the sun is the wrong angle for this room, which it will be in an hour. I setthem on the floor by the tub, one at the head, one at the foot. I light them with the box of matches in the drawer.
I lay a thick towel on the tile by the tub for me to sit on. I lay a thick towel on the bench under the window for her, folded. I lay a small cloth on the lip of the tub.
I walk out to the kitchen.
She is standing at the window in the gray henley. She turns when I come in. She reads my face.
"Ready?” she says.
"Ready."
"Okay."
I don't take her hand to lead her. I don't need to. She walks with me. She takes off the henley in the hallway, not in the bathroom, which is a thing she is doing on purpose. She folds the henley and she lays it on the arm of the armchair in the bedroom as we pass the open door. She walks naked to the bathroom. I follow her. I look at the back of her head, at the loose fall of her hair down to her shoulder blades, and at the slope of her shoulders, the lovely round curve of her ass, and at the pale band on her finger, which is not a band anymore, just a memory of one.
She steps into the tub.
She goes down in slow. Her knees come up. Her breath goes out. She leans her head back against the curled top of the tub and she closes her eyes.
"Oh," she says.
"Too hot?” I ask, concerned.
“Perfect amount of hot."
“Good.”
I sit on the towel on the tile, my knees up, one arm along the rim of the tub. I take the cloth. I dip it in the water. I wring it out lightly. I bring it to her collarbone.
I lay it against her skin.
She makes a sound. It is not a sexual sound. It is a sound a person makes who has not been touched gently at the collarbone since they were a child. And maybe not even then. I have heard this sound out of other women. I like to care for women who are mine. I keep the cloth at her collarbone a count of three before I move.
I move the cloth.
I move it along the slope of her shoulder and down the outside of her arm and over the wrist and back up the inside. I move it slow. I watch her face. Her eyes stay closed. Her mouth is soft. I move the cloth across her chest in an even pass, collarbone to collarbone, not lingering at her breasts. I let the cloth trail over the water and rewet it. I come back to her other shoulder. I do the other arm.
"How's your hand," I say.
"Still cut."
"Want me to rewrap it?”
"After."
"All right."
I turn the cloth and I bring it to the place below her ear. She tilts her head for me without opening her eyes. I wash behind her ear, the line of her jaw, down to the hollow of her throat. I skim the hollow. I feel her pulse against the cloth. Her pulse is fast. Her eyes stay closed. Her mouth is open a very small amount.
