Jenna stepped into the steaming space, silently. The spray of water hit her tired body with warmth and force, jetting down her spine and between her breasts in trickling rivulets before entering the drain at her feet. She stood still, eyes closed, arms at her sides, taking the beating of the water.
Soap in hand, she bent and, starting with her feet, worked her way up. Calves, knees, thighs, hips, waist, chest, back, shoulders, neck, arms, hands—not an inch left untouched by the cleansing. She worked the shampoo into her hair massaging her scalp with small, fragile-looking, but surprisingly strong fingers, thinking of the last pair of hands that had wound themselves in her long blonde tendrils.
As she rinsed, she watched the sudsy water flow off her body and imagined the day’s regrets sliding off and away from her. But her thoughts kept them close, like barnacles attaching to brain. Her tactical mind reviewed each step, each decision. There were no flaws, no holes in her execution.
She scrubbed her nails vigorously, triple-checking for the tale-tale red clay. Jenna hadn’t meant to get her hands dirty. But the hole had to be dug deeper than she expected. He was bigger than she remembered. She shut the water off with a decisive twist of the handle and reached for the white, oversized towel.
Wrapping it around her small frame twice, she caught her green eyes in the mirror and smiled. People always underestimated the tiny ones—especially big bullies of men. The towel dropped to her feet and she stood in the light of the early morning dawn, clean.