Thursday, November 13, 2008

From the Archives

After a particularly rough day, one of my favorite things to do is run a hot bubble bath, light some candles, put on some music, pour myself a glass of wine and just soak. Today was one of those days, but by the time I got home it was late and I almost put it off for another day. Then I was reminded that I need to make time for simple pleasures. So... I did. I made time. Who was I trying to fool? It's not like I would have fallen asleep anyway.

While sitting in the tub, glass of wine in hand, I was reminded of something I wrote a couple years ago, so I dug it out of the archives, dusted off the cobwebs and decided to post it. It fits tonight (except my hair color has changed.)

The bathroom door stands open, long chestnut brown hair cascades over the end of the claw-foot tub. Her arms rest lightly on the sides. Painted toes... Her long, tan legs, crossed at the ankles, heels resting on the faucet, look lean and defined in the warm glow of flickering candlelight. Legs bent at the knees, water droplets slide down to where her strong shapely thighs disappear into the white gardenia scented bubbles. Her body enveloped in the foam. Her cheeks rosy and lips plump from the hot steam. Her neck, shoulders and collar bones glistening, just a hint of her ample bosom visible as her chest heaves with every deep breath.

Relaxed, she stares at the ceiling as the sultry voice of Norah Jones drifts through the air. The lyrics unheard as thoughts fill her mind. Weary from the person she has to be, she disrobes of the strength, confidence, bravado that she wears all day. She tries to rid her mind of the confusion, jealousy, sadness, stress... He occupies her thoughts.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Her eyes closed, her lips turned up in an ever so slight smile. As she slowly opens her eyes, a deep, dark sadness shows in the windows of her soul. Lying there in the bath, she feels feminine, sexy, beautiful. Yet she is fully aware of the raw emotion just under the surface. She is hot. Passion surges deep within. She is ready. Affected. It is wasted. Alone. She is naked, vulnerable. She aches. The emptiness and solitude is suffocating. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Oblivious to how much time has passed, she stands up, rinses off the suds and wraps herself in a soft towel. As she steps over the edge of the tub, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. What she sees in her eyes is almost unbearable to look at. She slips into a black sheer robe and walks to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. Knowing that she only wants to numb herself before she falls asleep, alone in her bed, she stops, sets the bottle down and fills a tall glass with cold water instead. She knows she needs to feel.

Most days she enjoys her life, cherishes her freedom and independence. She tells herself that she doesn't need or want a man in her life. She is a free spirit, spontaneous, carefree. Most days, she is sincerely content alone. Yet, tonight she avoids the grocery store and the kitchen for there is no sense in cooking for one. Tonight, the moon senses melancholy.

She slips off the robe and crawls into bed, between cold sheets. As she lies her head on the pillow, she curls her legs in and shivers for a minute until the weight of the comforter warms her. She longs for the feel of his strong arms drawing her into his chest, holding her, protecting her, as she drifts into a peaceful sleep. Instead, she wraps herself around an over-sized pillow and allows her heartache to overtake her. She will not sleep well tonight, but she has become accustomed to the restlessness that defines her.

She'll awake in the morning, put the walls back up, cover up the wounds and robe herself with strength, humor, confidence and compassion. She'll make everyone around her feel important, supported and loved, focusing on them instead of collapsing into herself. She knows she'll be a little stronger tomorrow night.


How I wish I could paint (or sculpt)...

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