Wee

The room is cool against your skin, the air smelling faintly of soap and the citrusy edge of yesterday’s cleaning spray.

You lower your pyjama bottoms and knickers in one smooth motion, the elastic brushing warm skin, and sit down on the toilet. The porcelain is cool beneath your thighs, making you shift a little until you’re comfortable.

Your muscles relax, and the gentle trickle turns quickly into a steady stream. The sound is loud in the quiet room, echoing faintly off the tiled walls. It’s warm, almost comforting, a small, private relief after the night. You breathe out slowly without meaning to, shoulders softening.

When you’re done, you tear a few squares from the toilet roll, the paper soft but dry under your fingers. You wipe from front to back, neat and unhurried, then drop the tissue into the bowl. A quick flush, the rush of water swallowing the last sound of your morning privacy.