I’m just scooting off of my stool to retrieve the food from the oven and turn off the beeping timer when Curse stalks back into the room.
“Don’t bother,” he says, doing it himself. The beeping ceases. The kitchen smells divine as Curse uses a big spoon to scoop food onto two plates. When he brings it over, I finally see what it is – big pasta shells stuffed with some kind of cheesy spinach goodness and smothered in creamy sauce.
I take a bite and have to suppress a gasp of delight. Magdelena must be some kind of saint. It tastes even better than it looks.
Curse doesn’t seem to think so. Not that he looks displeased with the food, exactly. But he shovels it mechanically into his mouth like it’s nothing but a means to an end. A way to sustain his strength, his energy, the hulking marvel of his body. But not something to linger over. Not something to savour.
I appreciate it for the both of us, going so far as to scrape all the last bits of sauce off the plate with my fork, licking the salty tines one by one. I feel Curse’s eyes on me and glance at him.
He’s watching my mouth. My tongue.
I put my fork down and clear my throat.
“Want more?”
“No, thanks,” I say. I’d love to eat more of it, but I’m absolutely stuffed. “I’ll wash up.”
But Curse already has both our plates.
“There’s nothing to wash,” he says, tucking the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher. The casserole dish doesn’t need attention, either. It’s one of those disposable tinfoil types, and there’s still food in it. Curse slides it into the fridge.
“Alright, well…” I shift my weight awkwardly from foot to foot. “I’m going to go take a shower.”
“Another one?”
“Yes. Another one.”
I’ve showered at least once a day since I was six years old. More often than not, I do it twice.
I can never quite get clean enough.
Curse doesn’t have any more questions about it, so I head for the big staircase. I mount the steps one by one, feeling the pleasantly worn fibres of the carpet beneath my toes as I go. Because of my earlier explorations, I know that there are two bathrooms on the upper level. One has a big bathtub but no shower. The other is the one attached to the primary bedroom, which I’m certain is the room Curse sleeps in. That’s the bathroom that actually has some stuff in the shower, and I’ve always preferred showers to baths, so I step into that one.
Like the rest of the house, it’s a gorgeous room, with clean, bright lines, and a blue and white tile design that kind of matches the carpet on the stairs. The shower is a big glass enclosure with a detachable showerhead. I take off my sweatpants and sweater, then step into it, turning on the water.
I let the warmth roll over me, breathing slowly, trying to be present. Trying not to let myself go back to my wedding night. Or to this afternoon. When Curse told me to never touch him again.
Both those memories feel like they could shatter me.
But only one of them truly hurts.
I open my eyes beneath the water, letting it blur my vision before blinking it all away and reaching for the bottles on the shelf. There’s soap and shampoo in here. No sign of conditioner, but if Curse gets everything on the list I gave him, I can expect that to come soon. My hair is so fine and easily weighed down, anyway. A few days without conditioner won’t really be a problem. And really, in the grand scheme of my life, does stuff like that even matter? Thinking about something as inconsequential as a hair product when I’ve watched someone die and left everything behind?
It makes me feel shallow. I rub shampoo vigorously into my hair, using my nails to do it, until the lather is outrageously thick and my scalp hurts from the scrubbing. Once that’s all done, I rinse and then I do it again, washing the strands for the third time today. I only wash my body once, but I do a meticulous job. The soap in here is nice, with a clean, masculine sort of scent. It’s a lot better than what was at the motel, so I really take my time and get everything. I take the showerhead down from its perch, using it to rinse every nook and cranny.
I don’t let the water spray between my legs too long. I don’t like the gentle, tickly feeling of it there. I rinse the suds from my skin and the curling hair there as quickly as possible, then return the showerhead to its place.
I’m done washing, but I can’t face up to leaving the bathroom just yet. It’s getting harder and harder to be around Curse. The thought of spending all evening alone in his house – or maybe worse, spending it with him while knowing he doesn’t want to be with me – makes me want to cry.
I don’t. At least, I tell myself I don’t.
It’s all just hot water, running down my face. Who’s to say if there are tears or not?
At least Curse can’t see me right now. He seemed so frustrated when I cried in the motel.
I don’t know how to fix things, Aurora. I only know how to break them.
I stay in the shower long past the point of the hot water running out. By the time I turn off the water and I force myself to get out of there, gooseflesh has made my entire body bumpy. My teeth clatter painfully against one another as I take a towel from a rack near the shower and wrap it tightly around my shoulders, like a fluffy cape.
