Tub of Love
Chapter 1: Introduction
Nestled among the rolling foothills of the Colorado Rockies, my newly acquired vintage home stood as a monument to second chances — the perfect escape for a woman of my age with dreams of independence, and, little did I suspect, uncharted desires. At fifty-five, freshly retired, I sought solace in the tranquility of small-town life, far removed from the bustling chaos of Denver where I had spent decades at a desk that never loved me back. Little did I know, a newfound passion was waiting for me to simply... draw the bath.
Her name was Genevieve, a splendid clawfoot bathtub, unblemished by the sands of time that had gently rubbed the rest of the house into a well-worn lull. Perched invitingly near the window, she radiated a poised allure, her porcelain curves promising indulgence and a ticket to my own private Eden. Genevieve, the perfect symbol of enduring beauty, invited me each evening, and oh, how I learned to savor those invitations.
It started simply enough, with lavender bubbles and candles that shivered under the tickle of my sigh. But as I nestled deeper into Genevieve’s cool embrace, she seemed to whisper secrets of warmth and comfort, her slippery surface a tactile playground against my weary skin. In our moments, time stepped aside, leaving nothing between us but the thickness of perfumed steam.
My friends in Denver joked about the wisdoms of “resting” and “reflection,” perhaps expecting knitting needles and teacups to occupy my days — the kind of romantic encounters a widow could chase without ruffling respectable feathers. If only they knew how I spent my evenings, enveloped by Genevieve’s gentle symmetry, my fingertips tracing the delicate trail of ornaments along her rim in contemplative adoration.
Intimacy found its way through every splash and slip, an orchestral crescendo as the siphon gurgled a steady symphony. The transcendent surrender to each luxurious soak meant shaking off an entire life of schedules and deadlines; no chore or check-in disturbed us. Here, beneath the armada of bubbles, I encountered a lover who understood my knots and valleys.
Yet, like any romance worth its weight in bath salts, not every encounter with Genevieve was serene. One evening, lulled into a blend of claret blush and jazz that floated in from my trusty old record player, I slid too eagerly into her porcelain arms. In one spectacular move, I sent the tuner crashing and cascaded a tidal wave of water beyond her confines, sending me into a fit of laughter that echoed warmly against the bathroom walls.
Neighbors like Tim across the street — bless his observant eyes — might wonder why my grocery runs sometimes included more candles than condiments. Still, I waved his curiosity aside, knowing that Genevieve demanded the grand gestures of our era. Every ensemble of flickering candlelight turned mundane Wednesdays into celestial dances upon porcelain and flame.
As seasons slipped by, I noticed a change not just in myself but in my thoughts towards Genevieve. What started as indulgent escapism evolved into cherished ritual, a grounding centerpiece in my life’s drapery. Lovers — be they inanimate or agile — celebrate our worst, our best, and the profound silence that echoes between brushes, bills, and moments like these.
And sometimes the bathtub would hold more than just water and my weight: my reflections. Reflections on what it meant to retire not just from work, but from the pressures and fears that had long dictated my words and actions. I had retired into myself, into Genevieve — a lover who asked for no more than time, and plenty of it.
Those who find love might insist upon its permanence, yet, under Genevieve's stars, I recognized the multiplicity of temporality — not all loves are forever. But for now, nestled in her unassuming arms, I basked in the shifting dance of time’s water upon me. Contented sighs billowed in the warmth, mingling with the steadfast acknowledgment that many journeys end in such quiet, enraptured moments.
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