I have a bad writing habit of spending too much time letting my readers live inside my character's thoughts rather than writing more actions and conversations. So while I work to improve on that, I thought I share some of my stories' lonely scenes, or at least scenes that revolve around being alone.
I pour in almost twice the suggested amount of bubble bath, filling my little bathroom with the overbearing scent of green tea leaves and cinnamon. I consider opening the window, then think better of it. It’s nearly 15 below.
I pull up my stress-free playlist, and turn the sound way down, letting the vibrations make the plastic buzz as I leave my cell laying facedown on the toilet lid.
Shedding my 8-day dirty jeans and sweaty socks, I toss them onto the wicker hamper lid, preparing my willpower for the first real bath I’ve been able to take since the wounds on my legs sealed off, relieved to finally have the green light… I’m long past ready for this-
-Don’t think I would have had the energy to try to stand in the shower today, going through the tedious steps of cleansing my ravaged carapace. I know I wouldn’t have had the patience to be gentle, and that would’ve set the whole process backward again. The last thing I want is an infection - to be hospitalized all over again. Or…maybe the second to last thing…
I take a deep breath and ease my body into the warm water, forgetting the nurse’s instructions to test the water temperature first, to avoid any sort of shock. Fortunately, it’s cool enough, but even the slightest stimuli trigger the panic. I’m not sure if it hurts or if I just think it does. My skin begins screaming at me, as I grit my teeth, and submerge my body up to the neck. It’s a little better after the initial alarm. Like the first chill of diving into a frigid river. I leave the water running, churning soap into a layer of foam like the froth on a vanilla latte. I steep. Steaming my cinnamon skin into “Lady Tea.” Thick bubbles shimmer on the surface with little rainbows, a thousand shades of glory, as if someone captured Iris in a bottle. The simplicity is dazzling.
I think of taking a picture of that and sending it to Kattar, but I doubt he’d count it.
I don’t like meeting new people and trying to get comfortable around them. Therese and Verner made that so much easier than it usually is - made it feel like I was always meant to be here - but who knows what a new family would be like? Or worse - just one caregiver to work all the time and always be busy - always leave me at home to microwave myself a dinner and watch satellite TV sitting on a couch that smells like staleness and air freshener and off-brand laundry detergent, because it’s not safe to go out when there’s no one home to know whether you make it back by curfew.
Or if you’re…wherever men like the Actaeon take people like us.
Judith would never tell.
So the only thing a harbor family - or harbor giver - ever is for certain is better than Rookery.
Harbors feel a whole lot less like being lied to.
It takes longer than I expected to get Ayla settled back at Mom’s place, get them both some dinner, and get the dishes washed.
Tomorrow, I’m going to need to do the laundry, wash and rebraid Ayla’s hair, and do some vacuuming, but I really don’t have time for any of that today.
It's already much later than I wanted it to be by the time I get home, and I barely have 30 minutes to get changed before Mr. Giang will be here to pick me up for our date. That’s not nearly enough time to make myself look decent.
Rummaging through my closet, I search for something without a stain on it to change into and some high heels to match. Wearing my work clothes on the date is not an option. Besides the fact that it would make it look like I’m not even trying to look nice, Ayla accidentally touched my clothes with her dirty hands after dinner, and there are baby-sized barbecue fingerprints everywhere.
