Finishing The Shower

You slide the glass door open and step out onto the floor, damp under your feet. The air outside the shower feels cooler, brushing over your wet skin and raising a faint shiver along your arms.

Your hand reaches for the towel hanging neatly on the rail. The cotton is thick and warm where it’s been close to the heat. You wrap it around yourself, tucking the corner in just above your chest.

For a moment, you just stand there, feeling the weight of your damp hair against your back, the scent of your shampoo and conditioner lingering in the steam.

You blot your hair gently with the towel, squeezing sections between the folds rather than rubbing. The strands feel smooth from the conditioner, heavier at the ends where water clings. You wrap the towel loosely around your shoulders and let the rest hang down your back, knowing the warm air in the house will take care of the rest.

It’s Saturday, and there’s no rush. No uniform to iron, no school bags to check. The house is still quiet enough to feel like it belongs only to you for these few minutes.

You pad into the bedroom, still wrapped in your towel. The curtains are open just enough to let a stripe of pale light fall across the bed. Tom is still asleep, turned slightly on his side, one arm flung across the duvet. His hair is a mess from the pillow, his breathing deep and steady.

You sit at the edge of the bed for a moment, listening. In the stillness, you can hear the faint tick of the kitchen clock downstairs. The air smells faintly of fresh laundry from the pile you folded last night, waiting to be put away.

Your skin feels warm, clean, and a little flushed from the shower. Drops of water still trail lazily down your back. You tuck the towel more securely under your arm and stand, heading toward the wardrobe.