Blogopera #9 - Late Afternoon

This is #9 in a series, to read consecutively, begin with #1.

I rinsed the last bits of sand from my body, closed my eyes and let the spray hit my face. I heard the curtain move and felt Dylan’s arms circle my waist pressing his body into the back of mine.

I turned around and moved aside so he could rinse off. I poured shampoo on my hands and begun rubbing it into my tangled hair, stiff from the evaporated sea water.

“Here, let me do that,” he said and I dropped my arms to my sides and let him work his hands against my scalp, gently scrubbing and working up a lather. He tilted my head back into the stream of running water to rinse the suds from my hair. He looked around the shower trying to find something. I had bottles of every imaginable size and color crowded around the generous shelves of my tub. If I would have known I was going to have a man showering here, I would have culled it down to a less high-maintenance looking four or five bottles.

“Which one of these is soap?” he said confused, pointing at the array of probably twenty or so containers.
“These,” I said directing him to a cluster of six or seven bottles of what we women call body wash.
“What’s the rest of this stuff?”
“Scrubs, bath soak, shampoo, daily conditioner, weekly conditioner, other stuff,” I trailed off realizing this probably wasn’t making anything clearer to him.
“Why do you have so much of the same thing?” he asked.
“It’s not the same,” I corrected, ”it all smells different.”
He grabbed a bottle off the shelf, “Is this soap?” he asked.
“Yes.”

He poured a dollop of it into his hands and rubbed them together until he had worked up a handful of foam. He used the soap and his hands to lather and rub me from head to toe
and I stood there like a lazy cat enjoying an affectionate rub down. I rinsed off as he washed himself, too satisfied to return the favor. I stepped out of the shower and he finished up and turned off the spigot. I handed him a giant, plush, soft towel, one of only two and silently congratulated myself for splurging on the expensive towels. Maybe it balanced the cheap coffee, I thought.

He dried himself off, hung the towel over the cracked, enameled hook on the back of my bedroom door and slipped naked into the crisp, clean sheets of my bed. I had a momentary desire for him to go home. Not that I was sick of him, quite the contrary, part of me just wanted time to relish the last two days, amuse myself going over the details and letting it sink in. The desire for a private reverie passed and I slid in next to him. He gently nudged me until my back was to him and he rest his body against mine, his breath on my neck. It was not even five in the afternoon but we both fell asleep.

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