The Towel Slipped Down

Marie stepped out of the bathroom. After the humid heat that prevailed in the tiny closet, the air in the bedroom felt cool and gave her goose bumps. She had only a towel wrapped around her and held on to it as if it were armor, the last barrier between her and a hostile world.

Steve was still sitting there. Of course, where else would he be?

Without looking, she walked past him. She didn't need to see him to know he was there. His presence was almost physical. He was a constant in this America of 2075 that she hadn't foreseen, but that she had to take into account in order to accomplish her mission.

Was that the price Étienne was asking of her?

Part of her tried to assess the situation soberly: the Americans had a prescribed security protocol. Officially, he was there to protect her. As a single woman, she couldn't move freely in this society. She would encounter too many obstacles and be exposed to too many risks. He was a rational necessity, almost trivial.

But her body disagreed. Steve was more than that.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. The towel slipped down slightly. Not far, but far enough for Steve to notice. Marie's shoulders tensed. She sat up straighter, not because she wanted to express anything, but out of instinct. She wondered if he noticed her posture—of course he did; he noticed every little thing—and how he interpreted it.

The next thought hit her like a shock: being watched by him was no longer unusual for her. It didn't feel unfamiliar or uncomfortable. It was the new normal.

She took a deep breath, the towel stretching across her chest. A nervous fluttering spread through her stomach. It wasn't fear. It wasn't excitement either, more like something in between. A nervous energy built up inside her that could be discharged in one direction or another.

Marie risked a quick sideways glance at the bodyguard. He looked at her, neutral, outwardly unmoved. He was part of a system that did not evaluate her in order to give her appropriate meaning. No, as a woman in this country, her value was already predetermined and her role inevitable.

Could she accept that? And what would happen if she rebelled against it?

And then there was that one question, which was more dangerous than all the others: What if Steve was more than just her guard?

She stood up, turned around, turned her back to him, and untied the damp towel. It fell to the floor. It was an everyday action, practical, unexciting. And yet it felt like a conscious decision: I know you're there, and I know you can see me.

Marie lay down in bed and pulled the blanket up to her neck. She closed her eyes and pretended to be tired. But sleep was not an option at that moment. The lights stayed on.

The final question was: How long could she endure this situation without taking action?