Remnants of a Hot Shower

My cold pale skin touches the hot water seeping down from the shower head above. Goosebumps run up my arms and down my spine creating an uneven surface. I’ve only allowed the tips of my finger to come into contact with the water. I hold back the rest of my hand for fear it will melt. Slowly, it becomes easier to breathe, the thick air softens my mucus lined esophagus. I fiddle with the knob of the shower, edging it closer to cold in an attempt to satisfy my receptors   on my fingers. I don’t notice how long the water has been running, to my innocent mind it doesn’t matter how long it has been. My towel drapes into my hand leaving my bare body exposed to the draft who lingers in the bathroom. I hurry to shut the curtain close fearing being spotted by anyone but the draft, fearing my reflection will catch my eye. 

Steam slyly fills the air. I don’t notice it partially because I have started to lather my body with eucalyptus body wash, partially because it's mostly an invisible gas. I faintly sense a body come into the room, its feminine presence is made known with the smell of rose perfume. Coincidently the water running down the crevices of my body gets hotter as the washroom sings its tune. I can’t help but step away from the stream when I accidentally crack the curtain open. I expect to see my reflection when instead I am met with a foggy mirror. I reach for the once perfectly shined silver knob only to be met with a cloudy one. I am a victim to condensation. Without wasting any time I lunge my arm through the curtain, grab my towel and engulf my body with it. I am always too slow to beat the draft. I don’t know why I’m surprised not to see my reflection again but I can’t stand the condensation on the mirror. 

An urge is awakened in me while I stare into the mirror. I’m falling into a trance watching a single drop of gathered condensation roll down the middle of the mirror and suddenly I am locked into this accidental piece of art. A finger extends almost unconsciously. I am drawn to draw a mural on an already used canvas. The steam loiters around me, my exposed shoulders are its muse. 

One might recall a similar scene in many other unconventional spaces:

Sitting in the backseat right behind the driver on a brisk November morning I am taken back. It's still dark out but the straggling strands of light from the sidewalk lamp post allow just enough light to illuminate the mural on my window. I am eight, innocent. I draw a smiley face and sign my name right below. It doesn't satisfy me enough so I draw fireworks from memories of July 4th. 

I’m sitting in a small bookstore in the middle of Soho. I can’t read anymore without a thick set of spectacles. It bothers me to keep pushing them up the bridge of my nose but I settle with them in order to read the work of Franz Kafka. It’s poetic. My book rests in my criss-crossed lap flipping the pages with one hand while I drink my simmering tea with the other. Picturesque, yes. I bring the cup to my mouth while my eyes are occupied with the size ten font when I am slowly blinded. Without hesitation I wipe my glasses with the cloth given to me at the optometrist. I don’t even attempt to enjoy the art in front of me. 

There’s nothing I can’t express in the mirror after my hot shower. I could paint a river that flows off into the sunset, or write my name for no one to read, or I could stare in delight to not see myself. I choose to draw the person I dream of every night. She has a slim face without eye bags and straighter hair than my dyson could provide. Her hair falls right below her perky breasts. She doesn’t even know what a bad hair day feels like or understand the necessity for concealer. Her posture is pristine, some might even ask her if she dances with how aligned the vertebrae in her spine are. She’s tone but not muscular. Her clothes fit her in the just the right way, they don’t allow for rolls of skin to overflow in tight jeans. Her waist is cinched in just the right places, flattering isn’t it. She is slightly taller than me, her height is mainly in her long legs with her thighs creating a small gap. There’s something deeply human about this impulse. Creatures of nature fed into the impulse to let their presence be known, to mark their territory. I am a victim to the impulse. 

The thing about foggy mirrors is they never last. The blinding beauty of the women starting back at me in the mirror is erased by the draft. I never was fast enough to beat that draft. The edges are the first to leave me, then her hair followed by her body, lastly her legs. Somehow I can still see the silhouette of her. 

Sometimes I wonder what we choose to draw when we know it won’t last. What is truly behind the curtain when it drops. What do we choose to say when we are the only witness? I’ve drawn hearts when I wasn’t in love. Written names of people I try so desperately to forget. Spelled in languages that don’t exist yet. 

Who are we when no one is looking? 

We are raw.

We are desperate.

We are violent.

We are exposed.

We break down.

We are bare.

We are soft.

These are the remnants of a hot shower.