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"The fuck are you doing?" I growl.
"Trying to have a shower."
"You couldn’t have waited until I was done?"
"You couldn’t have asked if I wanted to shower first?" She huffs.
"Did you want to shower first?" I snap.
"I’m here, aren’t I?" She flips her hair over her shoulder. The strands slap against my chest. That crushed rose-petal scent of her seems to amplify, thanks to the hot water.
"Can I have the soap please?" She holds out her hand.
I am about to place it in her palm, then change my mind. Instead, I lather up the bar and swipe the suds down her back. She stiffens.
"What are you doing?" She glances at me over her shoulder.
"Trying to help you have a shower." I smirk.
"That isn’t why I came in here."
"You could’ve fooled me." I drag my soapy palm down the indentation of her waist, over the width of her hips, down her thigh. Her entire body trembles. Her shoulders rise and fall. I sink down to my knees and soap up her calves, the backs of her feet. Then tap the outside of her thigh.
"Turn around."
Her breath hitches.
"Now, Angel."
She pivots toward me and I tap her foot. She raises it, and I place it on my palm. The length of her foot is smaller than that of my hand. I soap between her toes, around her ankles, up the front of her legs, her knees, along the outsides of her thighs. A trembling grips her, but she stays steady.
I drag my fingers over the cursive writing inked onto her left hip.
Out of the ash
"I rise with my red hair,
And I eat men like air."I complete the rest of the stanza at the same time as her.
Silence descends for a beat, another. I glance up to find her watching me with a strange look on her face.
"Didn’t think I could quote Sylvia Plath?" I twist my lips.
"No offense. I don’t expect most people to recognize the words."
"I’m not most people."
She swallows. "I’m beginning to realize that."
"Why this specific poem?" I ask.
"People think the poem is about death because she wrote it in the months preceding her suicide. And it does touch on her previous attempts at trying to die by her own hand. But it's also about her resurrection and taking revenge on her enemies. It's that spirit I identify with. According to Plath, dying is an art. You have to keep at it until you perfect it. As an actress, I do the same. Each time I go on stage, I die a little and am reborn. And I'll keep doing it until I perfect it. Only, there is nothing like a perfect performance, for you’re only as good as your last one."
Her words sink into my blood and head straight for my groin. My cock extends further. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on as when she's speaking with such passion.
"You're not like most people, either, Angel."
A blush smears her cheeks.
