The Bathtub

I’m lying in hot water, steam rising in shapeless clouds. The new Coldplay album is playing softly from somewhere else in the apartment—”Lovers in Japan” mostly, the song that plays on repeat. Vanilla-scented candles are scattered around the bathroom. The whole room has gone quiet in a way that makes you forget there’s a world outside it.

Lately when I shut my eyes, my head fills with the wrong kind of thinking. Violent stuff. Sickness. The pointlessness of everything. Death mostly, and the arbitrary cruelty of being conscious and stuck in this body on this planet. Is this just the age I’m at now? The post-puberty years where you start actually thinking about existence and realize nothing you do will matter and you’re trapped here anyway? I don’t know. I let the thoughts sit there. Not much you can do except let them pass.

When I open my eyes again, the ceiling is just floating mist. I can’t tell if I’m sweating or if it’s the hot water running down my face. The bad thoughts are still there, trailing behind like something that won’t leave. Then the door opens. They come in quietly, undress, slip into the water with me. For a moment we just sit there. They ask if I’m okay. I say something meaningless. They hand me wine or champagne—something—and they just hold me. Their arms around my chest, their breath on my neck. And the noise in my head gets smaller. The terrible stuff feels further away. Quieter. They kiss my shoulder, my neck. The shaking in my hands settles. Everything is fine now. I’m okay.