A Big Morning

The light through the curtains is pale and thin when you open your eyes. Tom’s still asleep beside you, his breathing slow and even.

You slide out of bed carefully, bare feet on the cool carpet, and pad to the bathroom. The seat is cool under your thighs as you sit, the quiet hiss of your wee filling the stillness. You lean forward slightly, resting your forearms on your knees until you’re done, then tear a length of toilet roll and wipe, dropping it into the bowl.

Flush. The sound seems louder than usual in the quiet house.

You strip off your pyjama top and bottoms, your knickers last, and drop them all into the laundry basket. The fabric lands with a soft thud against yesterday’s clothes.

The shower runs warm in seconds. You step in, letting the spray hit your shoulders first, and reach for the razor straight away. You work slowly, carefully — over your calves, up your thighs, under your arms, every bit of fine hair gone. Then you focus lower, pulling the skin taut with one hand as you shave your pussy smooth. The steam clings to your skin, the water rinsing away the last traces of foam.

You decide to wash your hair too, squeezing shampoo into your palm, working it into your scalp until the lather is thick. Rinse, then condition, smoothing it through the ends before rinsing again.

When you step out, the air is cool against your damp skin. You wrap a towel around yourself and carry your hairdryer into the hallway; you don’t dry it in the bedroom, not wanting to wake anyone. The hum of the dryer fills the space as you work through it section by section, fingers combing through until it’s soft and light.

It’s your day off from work, so there’s no rush. But there’s a quiet awareness in every movement, the feel of smooth skin under your hands, the scent of your conditioner, the faint hum in your chest that comes from knowing what today is.

You move upstairs quietly, the carpet soft under your feet as you open the chest of drawers. A pair of fresh knickers first, plain black, smooth cotton, nothing lacey or obvious. You step into them one leg at a time, pulling them up slowly.

Bra next, matching black, lightly padded, comfortable enough to wear all day but still giving shape under clothes. You hook it at the front, then twist it round and pull the straps over your shoulders.

You slip into soft lounge trousers and a T-shirt for the morning, nothing that says you’re going anywhere. You’ll change later.