Swimmingly

Emily pulled into the detailing shop right on the dot, parking Jason’s precious sedan in the narrow queue of waiting vehicles. The heat shimmered off the concrete, the sun baking her shoulders as she stepped out and closed the door with more **** than necessary. A young attendant jogged over, clipboard in hand, flashing a too-cheerful grin.

“Davenport? Noon slot?”

She nodded curtly, offering a tight smile as she handed over the keys. “Yeah. Jason booked it.”

The guy glanced at the work order. “Gonna be about two hours, ma’am. Full interior, undercarriage, the works.”

Two hours. Of course. Jason had undersold it.

Emily **** her jaw to unclench. It wasn’t this kid’s fault. “Alright. Thanks.”

She turned toward the office, annoyed but trying to keep it together. She didn’t need to snap at strangers just because her husband was a selfish ass. The air smelled of citrus cleaner, hot rubber, and ozone. Machines whirred. Sprayers hissed. Somewhere nearby, a boom box thudded low bass.

Then—SNAPPPPHSSSSSSHHHHK!

A loud, violent hiss tore through the air.

Emily froze just in time to catch the full brunt of a pressure washer hose snapping loose from its handler. The high-pressure stream blasted her from hip to shoulder in a single shocking sweep, soaking her shirt and leggings through in an instant.

“Shit!” someone shouted.

The water cut off seconds later, the hose flailing to the floor with a metallic clatter.

Emily stood stock-still, eyes wide, shirt clinging to her breasts, leggings sagging heavy with water, hair slicked back across her forehead. Her mouth parted in a breathless soundless gasp. Cold. Sopping. Utterly drenched.

The receptionist behind the front desk let out a horrified gasp. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

Several employees came rushing from the bay, their faces a mix of panic and mortified apology. One offered a hand, another scrambled for towels.

“I—I’m fine,” Emily managed, teeth starting to chatter. “Just... wet.”

“Please, come with me,” the receptionist said quickly, guiding her through a side door behind the front desk. “We have a changing area—dryer, towels—God, I’m so sorry.”

They led her down a short hallway past lockers and concrete floors to a cramped employee breakroom that doubled as a makeshift drying area. A tall, rattling clothes dryer hummed in the corner. Hooks lined the wall. The receptionist grabbed a fresh towel from a bin and offered it with both hands.

“Take your time in here. Seriously. We’ll make this right.”

Emily took the towel and nodded mutely, dripping onto the tile, her shirt suctioned to her skin, bra lines visible through thin cotton. Her leggings clung uncomfortably between her thighs, squishing with every step.

As the door clicked shut behind her, she shivered. Still annoyed. Still humiliated. Still resentful