Tidal
I'M NEVER ONE TO ARGUE, mostly because I think it odd for two people to spend their time flinging words through the air. I really did shout and I’m pretty sure I hit square on the jaw. From what I remember of arguments that occur in films and in friends’ anecdotes they all involve the punctuation of a door slamming. Shut as if to prove a point, to add that depth of physicality, spatial awareness I suppose. I’d always imagined these scenarios to end in the most angriest person leaving the house. In the clothes they stood in and the random clutter that fester in their pockets and bag. A half packet of Tic Tacs, an old phone bill and today’s travel ticket.
But I stay and so does he. Two held captive in their humble abode not willing to indulge in humble pie. He must know I’m mad because I’m taking a bath in the middle of the day. The bath is run, by my hands to my hot standards and the robe hits the floor. My time. My place and most definitely my own company. I slide in the water that’s so hot it makes my feet tingle and my nose ache. I’m simmering down in a boiling bath. He’s walking from room to room looking for things to do, to clean, to tidy. It’s all been done. I feel him debate whether or not to say something. He doesn’t but he skims over the unfinished carpeting on the landing.
We’re two of a kind; we don’t say sorry. We don’t need to because we don’t argue. So I can hardly expect him to say it and I can barely let the word enter my own mouth so we sit this out. For as long as it takes. For as long as necessary. Or till he says sorry. He’s creeping around the landing thinking I can’t hear, he never learns. I watch as my body gets swallowed by the bath. So hot that every sensation is like fire burning my body bright red like a beacon. I should have added bubbles, foam, salts. I feel exposed, the red drowning (for all to see). I prepare myself to submerge everything... The hotness pricks my eyelashes and rushes through my ear canals.
There are two breeds of people when it comes to baths. Those who do and those who dislike sitting in their own filth. Wallowing is a popular word they use. I like to wallow, I like to sit and I like how I determine how long I wish to do so by how wrinkled my body gets. The sense of time evaporates when I clamber in my bath. If I get out too soon it’s a waste of water, if I get out too late I’ve wasted time. A tricky decision to have but one of life’s simpler ones.
They, the scientists, the researchers, the boffin folk who know all, say we do our thinking in the bath. I agree with that. I also daydream. Fantasise and facilitate. Or provide old re-runs of my days faults for my private viewing. And for the rest of my exclusive bath time I whip my body into shape. Shaving, plucking, exfoliating, moisturising; all elements I wish I could apply to my personal life.
Under the water his footsteps amplify, traipsing down our wooden stairs and opening cupboard doors. If I could breathe underwater I would, but I’d only come here as a treat. My deafening heartbeat and constant swallowing would push me to the surface if I stayed too long. Or calls of mobile phones, email notifications and battle cries of hunger would soon drag me to dry land. I turn over in my bath to create a current. Gliding beneath the water I feel like a mermaid. Long cascading hair snaking, slender arms fixing elegant poses. It’s only when I look at my legs do I feel all too woman. Petite feet welded to bones and flesh, with a few days growth on them to reiterate my human flaws.
He’s circling again, with a slower pace. The storm is drifting. My resurfacing interferes and as I noisily climax from my underwater retreat he trips over his patience and scurries away. I roll my eyes and reach for the razor. I glide and scrape the hairs away on my legs. The cupboards bang and the stairs stomp. Trickles of water drip from my raised leg, lingering before returning to their watery home. He’s at the door, there’s no doubt about that. It’s the usual routine when one of us has been in the bathroom too long. He tries the handle, each time knowing I lock it out of instinct and privacy. A few seconds pause and he unlocks it from the outside, a clever trick we both know. It’ll come in handy for when the children get locked in (the kids we’ll never have).
He leans against the basin and I hear him swallow his wine. He’s placed mine at the end of the bath. He always explains that it’s because he, “doesn’t want me to spill it accidentally”. Accidentally? Would I do it purposefully? I think it’s because he wants to see me stretch and struggle. I glance at the filled glass and raise my leg higher. I carry on regardless, laying hands over the contours of my body. Rubbing water into my calves feeling for untouched skin. He hasn’t swallowed, or sipped. He’s watching. So I raise the other leg and run the razor over rough and eager flesh.
He’s sitting on the side of the bath by the time the razor reaches just below my knee. He follows my movements as I rhythmically assess the razor’s succession. He drops a hand below the surface and breathes sharply, inwardly, at the intense heat I’m sitting in. His hand loiters above my leg and he runs it up (down?) towards my thigh. He points at areas I’ve missed. I obey and re-run old body ground. This process is completed via trust and reassurance with a detour of silence. We repeat till both my legs are done to his satisfaction. I replace the razor and he speaks.
“You’ve missed a spot”. A hand submerges, four fingers place themselves neatly between my thighs. He spins the curls into tiny coils as he leans closer. “Gently”, I cut him off, I didn’t want to hear anything. I hand him the razor and look him straight in the eye. “Gently and slowly”, I sternly explain. As I lift my legs to spread them for this ritualistic act my once petite and controlled foot knocks the wine glass. He’s too busy to scold or tut, he’s concentrating and I’m focused in wallowing in my own filth. The red wine corkscrews effortlessly below the water and I’m glad I didn’t add salt this time.
By Katie McCullough
Katie McCullough is a screenwriter and playwright whose tools of choice are her hands and anything to write with (as well as her mouth to talk to people). She's a graduate of Bournemouth Media School and The Royal Court, London, and has had several readings at the ICA and Theatre Royal, Stratford East as well as several stories published on Six Sentences. She'd be happy to ramble at you given half the chance as long as you let her look for a Gin and Tonic. Her website is www.katiemccullough.co.uk
© 2009, Metazen. All rights reserved.
Related posts:
[…] “Tidal” over at Metazen […]