Hot Water

“You’re beautiful this way.” He said.

She barely heard him over the water—the scalding hot water that was rushing from the kitchen sink. It came out clear, steaming, and quiet. It went down the drain red, steaming even more, and in a series of the noisy gurgles which had muffled his statement. Her body was on auto-pilot as she reached for the bottle of dish soap and unceremoniously drenched the sponge in it. The thick pink liquid quivered over the edge, dripping next to the drain and bubbling instantly under the steady income of water. She scrunched up the sponge and scrubbed.

First her hands.

Then her arms.

And then the knife that had, until then, been patiently waiting under the hot water.

She dropped it into the drying rack and turned off the water. Bits of soap clung to her skin, itching and generally feeling uncomfortable. All the while she could feel him watching her—watching her with some avid amusement that would be absent from those eyes were she to turn around and look. So she didn’t. So she just stood there with her back to him, dripping water and soap suds from her arms and savoring the moment of clarity.

If she turned around his eyes would be gentle and compassionate, understanding and warm. She would embrace him and he would embrace her. She would forget everything else but how much she loved him because he loved her. But he didn’t. He didn’t, didn’t, didn’t, didn’t—she turned around.

He loved her.

“You’re beautiful this way.” He said.

A/N: For the record, daydream. Ages ago. Revived and revamped because I was feeling contrary about something that came up in class.