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Jeez, I was so tired last night, and inebriated. I can only remember about sixty percent of everything that happened, and I have a feeling my performance was distinctly less than average. It’s Huxley’s fault, plying me with whisky. Well, I’m not drinking today. Have some willpower, dude.
I debate whether to wait until she comes out, then decide the opportunity to savor a wet, slippery Juliette is too good to be missed. I rise, yawn, stretch, collect my phone and—with a smirk—a condom, then go over to the bathroom door. I can hear the shower going. And she’s humming. That’s a good sign.
I knock, open the door a crack, and say, “Can I come in?”
“Yes,” she calls back. “I’m in the shower.”
I go in. She’s in the cubicle, her body visible as a light-brown shadow through the steamy glass walls. I look at myself in the mirror and wince. My stubble is too untidy to be anything close to designer. My eyes are slits. My hair is all over the place.
“I need to pee,” I mumble. “Do you mind?”
She laughs. “Fire away, sunshine. As long as you don’t mind me watching.” She clears a patch of steam, and her brown eyes appear, lighting with amusement as she spots my hair. “Feeling a little hungover, are we?”
Deciding it’s too late for pride, I leave my phone and the condom on the sink, lean on the tiles behind the toilet, and pee. I hear her laugh as it goes on forever, and sigh. When I’m done, I flush the toilet, wash my hands, then pick up my phone. I bring up Spotify, choose The Cure’s Friday I’m in Love, and set it playing. Then I walk over to the shower and open the door.
“It’s occupied,” she says, giving me a mischievous smile.
“That’s the least of my worries.” I get in, forcing her to move into the corner of the cubicle, and close the door behind me.
“There’s no room,” she complains, although by the way her eyes have widened, I don’t think she’s bothered.
“We’ll just have to stand very close together.” I tip my head back under the spray and soak my hair, then look down at her.
“Ooh,” she says. “You’re all shiny.”
“So are you.” Her smooth light-brown skin glistens as water runs down it. “Have you washed your hair yet?” She shakes her head. “Can I do it?”
She smiles. “If you want.”
I tip some of the complementary hotel shampoo onto my hand, smooth it onto her hair, and massage it in. She hums to the music as I glide my fingers through the strands, and then I turn her so her back is to the spray and rinse her hair clean.
“My turn,” she says when I’m done. “You’ll have to bend a bit.”
I dip my head so she can wash my hair, then let her rinse it, enjoying the movement of her fingers across my scalp.
Afterward, I hold her hand in mine and slide the other arm around her waist, and we dance to the song together beneath the water, both singing the lyrics. She laughs, and my spirits lift in a way they haven’t for a long time.
“Taku toi kahurangi,” I tell her. It means ‘my precious jewel.’ I kiss her ear. “Me te mea ko Kopu ka rere i te pae.” ‘Your beauty is like Venus rising above the horizon.’
She lifts her face, and I lower my lips and kiss her. When I lift my head, her eyes are glistening.
“Tum meri zindagi ho aur meri jaan tum men basti hai,” she says.
“Is that Hindi?”
She nods. “You are my life and my soul resides in you.” She smiles. “It’s a bit soppy.”
“I like soppy.”
“I can see that.”
I stroke up her spine, and she sighs, slides her arms around me, and rests her cheek on my shoulder. The music changes to Elton John’s Rocket Man—it just happened to be the next random track on my liked songs playlist. As we continue to dance, and then we sing the chorus together, I carry on stroking her back. Up to the nape of her neck. Across her shoulders. Along her arms. Back to her shoulders. Down her back. Across her hips.
She draws circles on my back, across my shoulder blades, down my spine, exploring the lines of the muscles. It is sexy—she’s wet and naked, so there would be something wrong with me if it didn’t turn me on—but there’s also something therapeutic about touching each other in this way. We’re getting to know one another. I explore the tiny hollow at the base of her spine. The way her figure curves inwards above her hips to her waist. My thumb finds the small mole on her ribs beneath her left breast, and then a few moments later the other one on her shoulder. She touches the scar on my hip that I got when I came off my motorbike in my early twenties.
My stomach rumbles, and she laughs.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m starving.”
