She walked to the thermostat and turned off the heat. She heard the familiar rumbling stop dead, and the dread sneaked around her heart like a boa constrictor, squeezing until she thought her heart would burst. She turned all of the lights out in the house, lighting candles and a fire instead. She waited for the first signs of boiling and then removed the kettle from the heat. She walked to the bathroom and poured the water into the tub, mixing it with the icy water from the faucet. She would do this several more times before filling the tub enough for a nice, warm bath.
Clara removed her clothing and slowly sank down into the water. She sat there for a time staring at the faucet, aware that she would eventually have to put her hair underneath of it in order to rinse out the shampoo. She shivered at the thought.
She washed her face first then grabbed the wash cloth and rubbed the soap over it several times. She started with her shoulders, working her way under her arms and down over her breasts. She balled the cloth in her fist and reached over her shoulder, one then the other, and squeezed out the soapy water to run down her back. She leaned back into the tub, resting her head on the end of it, and felt the water envelop her—a warm and softly undulating blanket.
She snaked the cloth down her belly, resting it lightly between her legs before moving it slowly up and down. She closed her eyes and imagined the woman she became that night—the woman whose sexuality overtook her senses and turned her into somebody unrecognizable. The woman who seduced her boyfriend to do explicit things to her while her baby sister was in the next room. She tried to conjure that woman again, slowly stroking herself deep within the warm water, feeling dull aches in her inner thighs and throughout her belly. Clara felt her returning, flushing pink at the realization that the woman never left but lay dormant. Waiting.
I really am a bad girl, she thought, and squeezed out the lone tear hovering at the corner of her eye.
She moved the wash cloth down her legs, scrubbing her feet and in between her toes. Then she tilted her head far back until she soaked her hair, sitting up and pouring a generous amount of shampoo in her hands. She scrubbed her hair creating a rich lather.
Once her hair was thoroughly washed, she turned on the faucet and unstopped the drain. She could feel the chill before she even put her hands and head under the faucet, and for a split moment she thought about the absurdity of not using hot water when it was easily available to her. Just turn the knob more to the left, she heard herself saying.
“No!” she replied, and her voice sounded strange in the stillness of the candlelit bathroom.
She turned her body around and stuck her head under the faucet before she lost her nerve. She squealed at the shock of the icy water, sending instant goose bumps rippling down her body. She pushed her hand through her hair roughly trying to rinse the soap faster, cursing softly for something to distract herself. It seemed like an eternity but the water eventually ran clear, and Clara sat up, shaking fiercely as she turned off the faucet.
She breathed deeply, grabbed a towel and wrapped herself up quickly. She stepped out of the tub and sank down on the toilet. She sat staring at the shower faucet, watching the slow, sporadic drip drip of the water. She stared for a long time. She thought back to the cold nights when she and Beatrice had no electricity or gas, taking warm baths then rinsing under the freezing water. It was torture then as it was now, and she laughed disdainfully thinking of the vow she made to herself that she would never wash that way again.
Clara grabbed a comb and walked into the living room. She stoked the fire then sat down beside it still wrapped in her towel and started the laborious process of running the comb through her wet, knotted hair.
She thought about what it would feel like, the first time. She hoped whomever she met would be nice and gentle. She thought that if she could only get it over with the first time, it would be easier the second. And the third. She didn’t want to do it forever. Just until she paid the property tax.
She continued combing her hair in silence, thinking. She sat as close to the fire as she could without feeling it burn her skin. She knew it was impossible to get her hair completely dry, but she wanted to get some of the heavy dampness out. She grew more anxious as the clock ticked slowly, telling her she’d have to leave soon if she hoped to find anyone. A customer, she thought, and grimaced.
She disappeared into her room and emerged with a small make-up bag and hand mirror. She settled herself on the living room floor again and used the firelight to apply a bit of blush, eyeliner, and mascara. She debated between lipstick and lip gloss and decided on the gloss. Gloss looked more innocent. She knew she didn’t have to work hard to look innocent, but she thought the gloss couldn’t hurt. No eye shadow. She could never put that on correctly anyway. Face powder-free because she didn’t need it. Not yet.
She got up from the living room floor and made her way to her bedroom. She closed the door softly and dropped her towel. She searched her scant dresser top for the bottle of lotion. She found it—almost empty—but she thought she could squeeze enough out for tonight. She applied the fragrant cream over her skin, paying special care to places she thought he’d like best.
She had nothing pretty to wear. She searched her closet a dozen times over and could not think of what to wear. She knew what the other women would be wearing, but she had no outfits like theirs. She decided on jeans—the only pair she owned that were trendy—and a tank top. She knew the top accentuated her breasts, and while she planned to wear a coat—the temperature outside would be near 20 degrees—she thought he might be surprised and delighted when she took the coat off for him revealing her bare arms and curves. She pulled on her white knock-off Pumas and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth.