He sat on the edge of
the tub. The bathmat was
damp, the air thick with
lavender. His phone
buzzed on the counter —
a message he didn't need
to answer. Not yet.
He watched his hands.
They had been fists all
day, knuckles white in
meetings, in traffic, at
the dinner he didn't
taste. Now they lay open
on his knees, palms up.
He turned them over.
The vent hummed. The
faucet dripped. He
counted the drops. One.
Two. The tension slid
off his shoulders like a
coat he'd forgotten he
was wearing.
*He let the drip be the
only clock.
I can stay here. Just
for a minute.
He leaned back against
the tub's cool
porcelain. The evening
light from the small
window painted a pale
stripe on the floor. He
didn't move to catch
it.