It's full.
She turns the taps anti-clockwise and the room becomes quiet.
She breaks the silence when her foot is the first to step in. Ripples are created and move in synchronisation to the rim.
At last her body is emerged in closure. She is weightless. The dirt of the day slithers off. Here, she bathes in her woes.
Apathy floats past her shoulder, regret curls between her toes. She moves her hands up her legs to her chest, and the problems drift off.
This is the only moment of solitude in her life. The only moment where everything is as still as water; as smooth as the jazz she hears making its way into her ears.
Temptation dips its finger in, leaning over the edge. She opens one eye and watches; she always finds it hard to shake him off. You can't always let everything slide.
She repositions her leg, dangling her toes over the edge and watches the steam coil and twist off her skin.
There she lay, just for a while. Nothing is felt, until she notices it is no longer warm and her fingers have pruned.
She climbs out and slips back on her petticoat. She is clean.
It's empty.
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