And that was the beginning of our perfect and lovely friendship. I remember I laughed for a few days about his initial reactions to me. I can always count on him for the truth, though, if nothing else. That’s all a girl like me really needs anyway.
I throw my keys down on the table next to the door and walk to the kitchen. Glancing at the clock, I see I have three hours until I have to go to work. I crack my neck and knuckles, thinking about having a shower. I settle on a bath instead because I really need to soak everything in at this point. My phone buzzes and Mark’s name lights up the front screen. I swipe to open the message and wish this kind of thing surprised me, but it doesn’t. He’d sent me a dick pic. I will never understand entire generations of men thinking this is a swell fucking idea that will turn out well for them. Like, did I ask you for a picture of your dick? No. Didn’t I just see your dick in person this morning? Yes. Do you think I fucking forgot what it looked like?
I shake my head and close my phone. You would think men would mature with age and this would only be a problem in the young ones, but that simply isn’t the case.
I walk into the bathroom and exhale. Yes, my apartment is old and randomly placed and even looks a little run down from the outside. But the owners updated the interior. The bathroom is pretty magnificent. It was one of the reasons I chose this apartment to begin with. Under the small window sits a large soaking tub. The floors are new tile, and the light fixtures and cabinets are new and more modern than anyone would expect.
I turn the faucet on and let the water run over the back of my hand until the temperature is right. As the tub fills, I throw a bath bomb in and slip out of my clothes. When the water is high enough, I dip my left foot in and then submerge it completely, then my right. I sit down slowly, letting the water take me.
I don’t have a lot of super feminine qualities. Or at least, I’m not the type of girl you see wearing a lot of dresses and getting their hair and nails done all the time. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I keep my hair in a long bob, which falls just below my shoulders. I keep my nails somewhat short and always paint them black. No other color is acceptable. I wear lip balm in place of lipstick or gloss. Vans and boots are my shoes of choice. I keep my makeup light and I have a few noticeable tattoos, the large one on my leg being the most noticeable in warm weather. Regardless, I relish bath time as if it were a spa. I even put a hydrating mask on my face during most bath time occasions, and today is no different. The woman in me loves face masks. I believe in pampering oneself frequently. I never had an issue with self-love growing up either. My mother taught me to always put myself first.
“You can only rely on yourself,” she’d said time and time again.
My issue had always been loving others. Loving literally anyone else, really. I love my mom. I remember loving a boy in third grade, but it didn’t last very long. Besides, I’m not sure love at that age counts.
The sheet mask peels off with ease and I lay it over the side of the tub. I notice the pruning of my fingers and cup water into my hands to gently rub my face, then wash my hair and body quickly before getting out. I pat my body enough not to drip and wrap my towel around my body. Once I’m in my bedroom, I pull the towel open and lie across the bed to stare up at my very boring ceiling. It isn’t like the fancy loft ceiling. It is white and plain except for the small crack dissecting the center. I don’t know how long that crack has been there or what caused it but it seemed like it just appeared one day out of thin air. Now, I’ve gotten into the habit of lying down to air dry and studying that particular crack. I’ve always air dried. Sometimes I even fall asleep completely naked and freshly bathed. Women everywhere understand this. Letting the under-boob dry in cool air is the only way to go. Spreading your legs sort of unladylike to let your thighs feel that same air. It is heaven. I don’t understand people who don’t do this.
I check the clock and still have almost two hours before work. Perhaps a nap isn’t a terrible idea. I reach over and slide a pillow under my head. I fold the towel back over me and shut my eyes. I have a standard alarm set for half an hour before my shift starts so I know I’m safe. I start to drift off and think of my mother again, the way I did this morning. I think of my tiny castle, her frail paper hands, and her words to me.
I am beginning to miss her again.