She climbed into the large, white, claw-footed bathtub, and awaited her secret lover.
The rush was always slow to start. As many times as she had felt it, as many times as she had
brought it, she never knew what would be brought with it. Sometimes, clear images, fantasies, bits of lyric, memories came, each with its own history, each of which she could trace back to its origin with reasonable simplicity. Other times she could have classified them as
feelings, but to do so would make her feel like a freshman year poetry student, who would chalk all of life's mysteries up to "the dark chambers of the heart". A poet she was, but freshman year had ended for her almost (oh Jesus, what a thought) ten years hence.
She instead referred to these (to only herself, of course) as the wispy, blown kisses of her muse. She never got around to putting a visage to this fantasy angel, or even a sex. (
What would be the fun in that? She asked herself often, with good humor.) Her muse was always just on the outside of her actual vision, like the name of a movie you could never remember right away.
These silent kisses sometimes flooded her head at the time of the rush, sometimes did not come for weeks on end. She never missed them so much as she subconsciously noted to herself that they were not there. She got by just fine without them, but at times, when the ink would dry on the first word of the poem she was attempting to put on paper, she got the urge to bring the rush, and raise possibilityilty of her muse, her long time acquaintance in her heart, bestowing upon her a color or an ambinoiseosie to bring to her words.
As she turned off the tap (the water had risen above her breasts, steamy and cooling at the same time), she wondered if anyone else had ever been lucky enough to be able to use these kisses, whether in their professional life, or for their spiritual health. If so, would she ever be able to talk to such a person about it? She thought, with no real sadness, not.
She had never been an overly shy girl, but she had definitely not been brought up to share her deepest thoughts with anyone. She was smart enough to know not to be embarrassed about anything she did, but she knew that some things just stayed ripe if you held them for yourself. Especially if you
made them yourself. She had, in the bottom drawer of her dresser, in between two pairs of panties, a small, yellowed piece of paper, folded over twice, which held the simple haiku
Light through the blinds and
The feel of your hair in my
Fingers, my rose drips.
It had always been her favorite poem, for reasons she could not begin to fathom. She had written it one day in high school, back when boys absolutely clamored to get near her, when she herself had trouble keeping her virginity from becoming a nuisance, like the clothes she desperately wanted to peel off so there could be nothing between the skins of two human beings. She had never shared the haiku with anyone, and no one but she even knew of its existence.
She lay back in the tub, closed her eyes, and slowly let herself be swayed by the gentle current within her own world.
Sometimes, she began with a fantasy. She had many daydreams of the normal, guttural sort (the new bagboy at the grocers was
delicious, as unromantic as it sounded), but sometimes she thought of different, more esoteric things. (These were the most sensuous, and by far the most vivid.) This time, she pictured herself in front of an open window, on thirdthrd story of a southern mansion she had always dreamed of owning. She was naked, her long black hair flowing down to the small of her back as she stretched her arms out and felt the wind of a cool summer breeze blow against her body. She felt her thighs begin to sweat, both with normal perspiration and also with the heat growing between them. She saw herself close her eyes as four, ten, a hundred dark hands crept around her body, touching her in places both intimate and seemingly innocent. Her hands crept lower in the bathtub as she saw herself lifted up, her legs being spread, and the hands slowly, gently caressing every part of her body. She felt her nipples harden as she sunk lower, feeling that slightly heavier than air feeling of being fully enveloped in sweet smelling and hot water. She felt herself relax in every muscle.
As her fantasy turned, she began to tense up, more and more anxious of the coming rush. She now saw herself sitting in the bathtub she now inhabited, only now her hair was being stroked and rinsed by her husband. (This was an actual memory; she had come home from a long day at work on her birthday to find he had scattered rose petals all over her bathroom, lit what seemed to be hundreds of candles, and run a hot bath for her. The memory itself was a good one, as he had been a good husband then and forever. It was an erotic one, because she could not remember a time when every nerve in her body had seemed so exposed, when the slightest feel of his breath against her neck had brought her so close to the rush she felt on her own.)
She suddenly had a vision of herself on horseback, wearing only silk negligee, riding on the beach in a rainstorm. She saw her thighs, taut with muscle, heaving upon the back of the black stallion she rode. She saw and smelled her hair as it whipped behind her. She felt (almost a glimpse) of the sweat between her thighs, and she moaned.
Then, without warning, came the rush.
She felt herself leave her body, all conscious thought forgotten, and felt the kisses of her muse. A thousand sense memories flooded her (the smell of cookies in her grandmother's kitchen, the sound of her husband's quiet snores, the feel of silk stockings as they are being pulled on) and, with these, a thousand things she could never put into words. She felt every inch of her body tighten. And then it was gone.
She watched lazily as the waves in the water slowly receded. She placed her hands on either side of her, and her mind became quiet again. When she realized from her slow breaths that she was falling asleep, she drained he water from the bathtub, stood up shakily, and stepped out.
