The enclosure’s fiberglass doors were clouded. In these few square feet of wet and heat, Beth felt sealed away from the starkness of a sometimes too-real world; this was better, a wispy, ethereal softness enveloping her like a good dream. Smiling, Michael said, “I’ll get your back for you.” She turned, dipping her head into the full force of the shower spray, rinsing out the lathered shampoo. Washcloth covering his fingers, Michael massaged her neck, kneading away the muscular stiffness. He rubbed her shoulders, then moved down the center of her back, tracing the ridges of her spine. “That’s nice,” Beth sighed, feeling as though she understood why cats purr. Then she nearly hiccupped, but managed to catch herself, changing it to a giggle. She was drunk—not drunk drunk but happily buoyant and wonderfully relaxed. Along with the chicken, Michael had brought home a bottle of Blue Nun. Lounging on throw pillows on the carpet in the basement rec room, they’d had an air-conditioned picnic with paper plates and plastic glasses.
