Bathroom Interlude

I had a shower today and suddenly felt so alone that I was compelled to sit down. I let the water cascade over me and was embraced by its warmth. As my leaden limbs sunk to the ground, I stared past the steamy translucence of the shower partition and the watery shapes that dripped in rivulets down towards the drain.

I knew time had passed because my fingers were starting to become white and shrivelled as children’s do when time stops as they play in the bath before bedtime. This was, however, no incentive to get up. I had no reason to leave this square haven of soothing whiteness.

My phone was off. The door was locked. The house was empty. No one was going to come and drag me out of a sanctuary I had willingly emprisoned myself in. And so I had to coax and coerce myself to push past the shower door back into the cold but out into the world, not only because I knew I had to, but also because also because deep down, I knew I could.