Scene IV

The rest was a blur. 

Can I do your legs?

My legs?

Your legs. 

The slight placement of towels, the turn of the knob to let the HOT side spurt into the sink, a washcloth thrown into the bottom as the steam emanated from it. 

What are you doing? She asked with her sitting on the sink, legs extending beneath her robe. 

Prepping. 

Prepping?

Prepping. 

The slight lotion was from an oil based substance that he had used pre shave. It smelled of sandalwood and it was dispensed in a dropper. He twisted the top and on her right leg he dropped clear  honey colored droplets from the top of her ankle to just around her knee. He then rubbed his hand in an almost massage around her shin, her calf, working the muscles and letting the slippery aroma arise amongst them. 

That feels good  she murmured. He continued without responding. 

After the oiling he turned off the spigot. The washcloth steamed gray against the white porcelain. 

This is gonna be warm he warned. He took out the rag and wrapped it across her leg. She grimaced a tad but then relaxed, the warmth like a bite or a grip on her calf. It lessened in heat and melded. 

He removed the rag, throwing it into the sink and turning on the HOT again. He took out a gray bottle of Clinique shaving cream, squeezed a dollop into his hand and smoothed it against her leg. He felt the tiny cactus bit of stubble. He loved that it reminded him of her humanness, her daily habits, the growth of hair, an intimate visit. 

He pulled out a razor, fresh from the package and with its four steel blades he drew a line down her leg like a furrow. Somewhere, sometime ago he had put on an Andrea Bocelli disc. The dulcet singer was in full voice off in the other room. 

He was careful around her ankles. 

Be careful. 

I will. He was close to her leg like a surgeon, leaning over her and scrutinizing his work, rubbing a hand where the blade had passed. Sometimes he went back on some stubborn spot. 

He finished after a bit with her legs shining and preening in the light. He put some more oil to lotion them up, two piano stands of perfect human flesh that were smooth and relaxed. 

He'd forgotten that he had poured her wine. He'd forgotten about the Bocelli disc. Her head was forward, almost in a sleep mode. Any tension he could feel in her legs was gone. 

I thought the shampoo was great. The leg shaving...

Yeah?

A different level. 

In the sink a few stark tiny hyphens dotted the white with their darkness. In his mind he thought pieces of her. Real pieces. In his mind's eye they were tiny needles pulled from her. Extracted. It humored him to think that she had brushed up against him, sometimes literally but mostly figuratively and he felt like in each collision she had left such stinging nettles that remained unseen but certainly felt inside of him.  He had wondered what they looked like and now he knew. 

Can I have more wine?  Her request interrupted the slight quiet. 

Of course. Besides with that oil on you perhaps you should take a shower. 

The look she gave him was a pause. She stared, quietly, eyes moving to each of his and he saw a certain color in her cheeks. 

Perhaps we?

Scene V