I am obsessed with baths, reading in baths, soaking in baths, so much so that my right hand is considerably softer than my left. The left hand holds the book (and occasional magazine) after all. The left hand has a weak thumb. The right hand controls the soap, the shampoo, the razor blades, and pressure. The right foot handles the flow of the water, a steady stream of heat that ebbs and flows and refreshes itself through and through, pore by pore.
After a long night of drinking and talking too much and letting the foul city press up against my back, I let it wash off, soak through me like vinegar over rust. It cleans me. It releases everything. I soak underwater, hot and foamy. If bathwater was salted I would be pickled like an olive, my fingers rugged with pruney crannies and concave folds.
I emerge wiped out. I wrap myself into towels and into bed sheet. I tangle. I am clean and reborn and pure enough to sleep through the night.