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I’m sitting here, waiting for the sleeping pill to kick in. My doctor has me on tranquilizers now to guarantee that when I curl into bed at night I actually sleep. Sleeping…. I so rarely truly sleep anymore. I stopped sleeping the night she left me and I realized that all I was seeing was her face behind my closed eyes.

I’m sitting here, waiting for the sleeping pill to kick in, watching her username pop up on my instant messenger. She’s online, but we are not speaking. We’re both too raw and we both care too much for each other to talk. Instead, we stare each other down in silence this way and as we do, I take stock of all of the things I learned from her. How to make citrus floats. How to make hair art on the shower walls. How to hem a pair of pants with duct tape. How to bathe for pleasure.

No one took a bath like she did. She too long, graceful soaks. I remember calling her only to find her in the tub, a book at her side, a scotch in her hand. I remember touching her body as it was still pruned from the water she’d sat in for so long. In my world, baths were for getting clean. They were purposeful. Sure, I had an assortment of sweet perfumes and scented soaps and oils for bathing with, but that was just part of the cleaning. But to her…she taught me to relax. She taught me that lavender was for unwinding, rose for healing, and a special custom scent for seduction. She bathed herself in that scent the first time we made love.

I miss her. I miss her more than I feel comfortable with. I miss coming home at night to find her in the bath, her body naked beneath the surface, her siren’s voice beckoning me to join her.

So tonight, before the dreaming drugs kick in, I am going to bathe for pleasure and in the water find the warmth of her absent arms.

by Nickie