Leaving her brain behind

Leaving her brain near the door, she steps into her body, penetrates the thick steam. Filtered sunlight casts the landscape outside onto the cool textured floor. For the first time in weeks she feels the warm water circle the top of her head, surrenders to the crown, leans in to the silky spray tapping like rain on her skull. Droplets into stream rush down her scalp . . . encircle her shoulders . . . caress her backside and inner thigh, rounding to the outside of her legs just below the knees. She smiles and verbalizes her exhalation . . . inhales the spicy shampoo oozing a glossy pink ribbon into her palm . . . massages it into her scalp with all ten fingers. Squeezing grainy face scrub out of an almost-empty tube using two hands, she notices the diminishing supply. Cat’s tongue roughness, applied in circular motion on cheeks and forehead, urges layers of skin down the drain. Scrubber, frosted in pearly strands, explodes jasmine and rosemary up her nose and onto her skin; scratches her body’s itch. She reaches for the razor, sunken to the bottom of the basket of toiletries on the floor. It glides through the shampoo she substitutes for shaving cream, leaves a path of bare skin. In the middle of winter shaving her legs is an intention to initiate sex. Surely God stands near, back to the cold tiles, regards her with loving eyes and makes sure she rinses thoroughly.