Lovers in Japan

The water is still hot enough that the mirror has completely fogged over. A few candles are burning on the shelf—a couple of them vanilla-scented, the sweet kind—and the new Coldplay album is drifting in muffled from the other room. Lovers in Japan is the song I keep returning to.

Lately, when I close my eyes, ugly thoughts come for me. Murder, decay, illness, and the particular dread that nothing means anything. Is this just the age—that phase after adolescence when you’re suddenly required to think about death and the fact that you’re walking around on this strange planet for no clear reason? I let them stay for a moment.

When I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling, small wisps of steam drift past. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or bathwater running down my face. The bad thoughts are still lingering. Then the door opens quietly. She comes in, closes it behind her, steps into the tub with me. She asks, Marci, do you think my breasts are too small? She smiles. She pours us both champagne and wraps her arms around me. The thoughts are gone. She kisses my neck. I feel fine.