How long have you been holdingallthat back?
But I’ve learned enough about Eli Shaw to know: if I push, he’ll retreat.
So I keep my mouth shut. For now.
We’re nearing the path to his front door when he veers right, onto another trail I hadn’t noticed before.
It’s narrow, lined with moss and soft stones, like it’s been walked a hundred times but never announced itself.
And then I see an outdoor shower.
Okay. Not a shower. A sanctuary.
Built into the landscape like it grew there on its own.
A curved wall of smooth stone surrounds it, with vines trailing along the edges. It’s enclosed in glass, but there’s no door, just a soft curve of privacy.
The floor is made of wood and accented by large, flat river rocks, smoothed and worn down with use.
The water flows from a copper spout fixed into a beautiful piece of driftwood.
It feels wild and intimate—a raw, visceral reality that outstrips anything I could have ever dreamed, or even dared to write poetry about.
“When I need to break something,” he says, “I’ll chop wood, dig, plant. Whatever it takes to work the frustration out of my system. Then I come here. To wash it all off. The weight. The noise. I don’t like carrying any of that into the place I call home.”
God.
Why is everything about this man so deep and soulful?
“Did you build this too?” I ask, still taking in the details.
“I did,” he says, setting me down gently.
He reaches forward, turns the water on.
It’s cold on my feet at first.
Then warm.
Warmer.
Steam rises slowly into the morning air.
And because I can’t help myself, I ask the question I know I shouldn’t.
“What are we washing off right now?” I ask, not looking at him. “Consequence?”
He pauses.
I feel the stillness settle between us.
But when I finally look up, he’s already recovered.
“Right now,” he says, stepping closer, “we’re just washing off the earth.”
Thelust. He doesn’t say it, but I feel it lingering.
He starts with my shirt—hisshirt—and peels it off me. Like he’s undressing something special.
