She ran the bath a little hotter than usual. Forget the words of those who said hot baths were bad. Tonight she needed the heat. And bubbles. There would be bubbles tonight, along with a glass of wine and a book.
Cannery Row. She pulled the worn paperback from the shelf and brought it to the bathroom, along with a bottle of Zinfandel and a glass.
Art Pepper played on the stereo. All of the doors were locked. At 3:34 a.m. there weren’t any noises from outside. The rest of the world was asleep.
Tonight she’d escape in her own bubble, away from the rest of the night. She’d scrub the blood out from underneath her fingernails. She’d sooth and heal the scratches on her arms.
Watching the a pink and blue soap bubble float up then land on the tile wall she thought of how he’d struggled against her. He could have never imagined the strength of such a small woman. He couldn’t have imagined any of it. And then he’d sleep and by the morning he’d only remember how good she looked in the blue dress and white sandals. He’d remember her odd little charm bracelet and her smiling blue eyes. He’d remember the way she kissed his neck and drove him crazy. He’d sleep in this Sunday, then wonder why his neck hurt, take some Advil, and feel better by noon, then take his dog to the park.
She liked him. He was sort of cute and said interesting things. He listened too. They rarely wanted to listen, at least most thirty something men she’d met over the past hundred and fifty-three years. And he liked dogs.
She took a sip of wine and thought about taking her dog to the park too. She’d see him again. He’d smile. Their dogs would sniff and play. She’d start the seduction all over agin.
Then again, maybe she’d just sleep it off in her own bubble. Or maybe not. The bath was hot, her blood was cold, and she just couldn’t make up her mind about anything.