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The security guard had been tight-lipped on the drive home. He’d cranked the volume on his car stereo so high it was impossible for me to ask questions. The rap tune still resounded in my head as I slipped out of my dress and heels. I’m the mister, a trickster, a craft-ster, wanna be your master, gonna make you my slave.
Too jittery to sleep, I downed another tranquilizer and ran hot water into the tub. The bathroom was three-hundred-sixty degrees of mirror. Even the ceiling was mirrored, reflecting black marble floor tile. Seated on the edge of the bathtub, I watched myself open a vial of lavender oil and sprinkle the droplets into the water. My eyes looked sad and slightly sunken from lack of sleep. I was perhaps too thin, which gave me a fragile appearance and made my breasts look small and adolescent. I unclipped my hair and let my curls spill down my back.
I eased into the water and willed myself to relax into the fragrant steam. A sheer blue sphere filled the palette above my eye. I turned the bath handle hard left until it would turn no more. The jet-pour scalded. The level rose higher in the tub. I watched my skin turn from pale to pink to piercing rose.
Each time I closed my eyes, the image of the man, feral and sick, appeared in my mind—his sobs about hidden secrets needled at me. Scott was secretive about his research. He had to be. Non-disclosure agreements were just part of the job, he’d always told me. His stilted tone meant it would be fruitless to enquire further. I’d learned not to take it personally and eventually not to ask questions. When he did discuss his work, it was only in the most abstract terms, n and x, known and unknowns.
Steam misted over the mirror, blurring my reflection. I moved my foot beneath the faucet, breathed in, and concentrated on the splash searing my skin. It was a strange haven from the anxiety pinching inside me.
When Scott crawled beneath the covers, it was past four in the morning. I must have slept, but I wasn’t sure. He drew against me, naked, cool. His hair was still damp from a shower and smelled of chamomile.
I turned to face him. “Who was that man?” I asked.
Scott hesitated before answering. “A student.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
He closed his eyes and answered. “He was sick, Chlo. Don’t worry about it. Everything’s taken care of.”
“But what happened?”
“Baby, I’m exhausted. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.” He swaddled the down cover over his shoulders and drilled his head into the pillow. His brow bore a slight frown. Within seconds, his breath deepened. Sleep came so easily to him. It was a gift. I lay awake watching him—his straight nose, the firm jawline—even asleep, he seemed strong.
I whispered, “Don’t call me baby.”
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Thank you for the sharing, Emma! I appreciate your light yet detailed touch on the edits. ❤️