Bathwater

Her twin came back today. Breezed in like he owned the place, blond curls in perfect disarray, crooked boy smile on a perfect light tan face. Bright green eyes came complete with a twinkle. A girls dream. She watched him enter, fashionably, without appearing so. Asked him how he’d been, avoided why he hadn’t written. Or called. His one armed hug seemed to make the gap wider, not close it and he let her kiss his cheek with a face that said he was, as always, clearly uncomfortable.

“I’m going out tonight” he called from the bed room he had commandeered from her, “Maybe find a couple of chicks…” the rest of his words were lost, whether because she wished not to hear, or the door closed, she didn’t know.

They weren’t really twins, not really. Twins had the same parents and looked the same, or similar. They loved the same too. She and he did not have the same parents. They did not love the same either. For years they had been close as could be. Then an age difference of two years and different schools pulled. It was a gentle pull; not enough to hurt until it was noticed. And then it was only noticed by her. A line grew between them. It was a line she frequently and desperately crossed, and that he avoided more desperately as time passed. She was there, he would acknowledge that, but only when he was single and needed a place to stay, or to bring girls home to.

They didn’t look alike either, she mused as he sauntered across her house, naked, with an ease born of moaning girls compliments and appraising looks. Lean, toned, blond, curls, chiseled lips, high cheek bones, arched brows. A hint of self pity entered her head to be pushed away as she picked up her book. She wasn’t ugly at all. But neither was she pretty. Lips: not puffy enough to be full; eyes: not quite big enough to be round; nose: no quite small enough to be a button; hair: untamable and not nearly long enough to be feminine. She longed to look like the girls that graced the clubs at night in black back-less mini-dresses. Like the girls he brought home every time he was here. She wondered where the jealousy came from. It wasn’t that she wanted to fuck him. She made a face. No, that wasn’t it. They’d make a horrible match besides the fact she felt as if he was her brother. She wanted the love she threw at him to finally be given back. She wanted the warmth to come back to his eyes when he saw her. She wanted him to call her Twin again.

He emerged from the bathroom dressed in black, his hips already swaying to music only he could hear on his cloud. He shot a resentful look at her quickly covered with his crooked smile that never reached his eyes. Their wounded friendship sat between them like a dog with a broken leg. “You should get a shower. Baths are passé. Don’t wait up.” He muttered as if someone like him would deserve the worry he didn’t want from her. The door closed be hind him with an empty slam.

She wanted to shout after him that why would she want to wait up to see him bring one, maybe two buxom and stunning girls into her house. Girls he would expect to be gone by morning so they wouldn’t disturb his hung-over sleep. She remembered that she had once predicted he would be dead by 32. He was 28. Four years to go. She was 30. She should have been married by now. Should have had a kid maybe. She should be there, in that dream, rather than here, waiting up like a forgotten worried mother with an errant son. With a sigh she rose and went into the bathroom. It smelled of Axe. The bathtub was still full, the water clear as if he’d never bathed. The wet towel on the floor whispered another naked story. She hung the towel on the rack before stripping off her pajamas and lowering herself into the almost-too-cold water. It smelled of Axe too. She dipped her fingers into it, tasted it, tasting the cologne he seemed to sweat. She leaned back until the water merged over her not-quite-button-nose and not-quite-puffy lips. Finally when she heard the door slam followed by a girlish giggle, she pushed the drain open with her toe. She stayed in the tub, staring at the drain until all the water had gone, spinning down the drain more graceful than a limping dog. Climbing out she didn’t bother with a towel. She flicked the bathroom light off with Axe-wrinkled finger-tips and returned to the bedroom.

He was lying on her bed, arms under his head. “I told her to use the other bathroom.” He stated. She nodded. Suddenly he seemed to notice she was naked, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said softly, as the dog with the broken leg limped down the drain, “Just taking a bath.”