It’s one of four in an old, renovated Victorian mansion where the walls talk more than I do.
The shower is made entirely of glass and serves as the main exchange of information with the lonely hearts who find themselves sudsing up with me, trying to commit the numbers I etch into the steam to memory before the water turns cold.
The first piece of furniture I placed inside was a queen canopy bed, on which I draped vines and potted plants and spots of eucalyptus. When I have a nightmare, the posts slide across the original wood floors in synch with my tossing and turning.
When he’s here, the posts slide across the original wood floors in synch with our tossing and turning.
In the summers, I sweat as I get ready to walk to the bar two streets over.
In the winters, I shiver under candles and heated blankets and hands much larger than mine.
During the peak of autumn, I enjoy every cup of coffee on my roof under a gargantuan maple and watch as it turns cherry red.
In the spring, I do the same as it catapults thousands of tiny helicopters across my tiny lawn.
I’ve loved every second, every moment I’ve gotten to sit and bask in the world around me from this safe space of my own creation.
But the trees will turn red again next year. And the helicopters will fall. And the candles will burn. And the showers will fog. And I’ll be used to it. I’ll still love the pretty replay just as much as I did the first time.
But I dream of those cherry red leaves reflecting in your eyes, and those helicopters getting caught in the wisps of your hair. I dream of showering and writing love notes in the steam, of sharing my heated blanket and reminding you to light the candles before we fall asleep.
© Bradie Gray 2019