Chapter 8: The Tub

We went to the sponsor dinner, because her uncle's driver was parked outside the restaurant.

We lasted forty minutes.

Joanna shook hands, said the right things about advertising, and held my hand under the table the whole way through.

I ate two bites of a bourbon-glazed chop and could not have told you what it tasted like.

Every time she squeezed my fingers, a little heat went up my arm.

At the end she said we had an early morning, and nobody argued.

The hotel suite in Louisville had a bathroom bigger than my kitchen.

In the middle of it stood a deep white tub on four brass feet.

Joanna turned both taps and poured in a little bottle of lavender soap.

She did it carefully.

"You don't have to do this," I said from the doorway.

"I know."

"You looked scared when you said it in the car."

"I'm scared now."

"Of a bath?"

"Of doing it badly," she said.

I walked over and put my arms around her from behind and rested my chin on her shoulder.

We watched the water rise in the mirror over the sink.

"You can't do it badly," I said. "It's a bath."

She laughed, and I felt it in my ribs.

I undid the zipper of her dress, and this time she let me take my time.

The gray silk slid down her arms and gathered at her feet.

She turned and began, very gently, on my buttons.

Her fingers weren't quite steady, and I loved that more than anything.

We stepped into the water together, and she sat behind me with her knees on either side of mine.

The tub was deep, and the water was almost too hot, and the air smelled of lavender and steam.

She wrapped both arms around my waist.

For a long time neither of us said a word.

I leaned back against her, and my curls floated up and tickled her chin.

"This is nice," she said.

"It's very nice."

"I don't take baths."

"I know. You told me you don't do anything for fun."

"I'd forgotten what warm water is like."

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