Mist and Mirror

I hadn't locked the door.

Not by accident. The soft click of the lock had been clearly audible when I closed the door—unmistakable even outside in the hallway—and I left it that way. On purpose.

I stood under the shower for far too long, hot water pouring down on me until my skin was red and sensitive. I turned off the water and stepped out, dripping wet. The room was full of steam, so thick that I could hardly see my reflection. Just a blurred outline. A phantom.

I dried myself slowly, without rushing. The towel became wet and heavy. I let it fall to the floor.

And then I didn't move.

I just stood there, leaning my hands on the edge of the sink and waiting.

The mirror slowly cleared. First a corner appeared, like a camera slowly opening the shutter. I could see my collarbone. The line of my neck. The damp ends of my hair, slightly curled. I stood completely still and barely breathed. No sound.

He couldn't know I was still in there.

The thought made my heart flutter. It was ridiculous. He was probably sitting at his desk. Reading. Typing. Minding his own business, as usual.

But he could come. He would have to go to the bathroom at some point. He would assume I was done. That's why he wouldn't knock, why would he? He would open the door.

And then—what would he see?

Me, standing there barefoot, wet, pink, wearing nothing. Pretending to be surprised. Pretending I hadn't planned any of this.

My heart was beating louder than my thoughts.

I stared into the now clear mirror, completely visible—with red cheeks and wide eyes. I tilted my head to the side and listened. It was still closed. Still no footsteps to be heard.

The tension tightened around my chest like a wet towel. The waiting was delicious. Agonizing. I wanted something to happen, and I wanted to be afraid when it did.

A floorboard creaked outside.

I froze. My hands didn't move. I clung to the sink. I could hardly breathe.