The only thing I ever wanted was a bath. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not filthy. I shower every day, twice if I’ve lifted lots of stuff at work; I never repeat clothes before I’ve washed them; I floss. I’ve just never had the time for a bath. You’ve got to fiddle with the knobs before the temperature is right, then you gotta wait for it to fill, and when you go to sit down in the water, you even have to do that carefully too or else you’ll turn your bathroom floor into the first few rows at a Sea World show. Then when you’ve finally got yourself situated, then the phone rings or someone knocks at the door or you look at the clock and it’s ten till six already, and you’ve got to hurry up change and get on I-470 right now if you want to be only five minutes late.
Since I grew up and got a job, the bath has remained something mystical, like Santa Claus or world peace. I dream sometimes of the water surrounding me, buoying me aloft, a small child unfettered by schedules and Powerpoint slides. I don’t even look at the rubber duckies or bobbing balls that float past the fringes of my vision; all that are tangible are the textured grooves of stuccoed ceiling, and, of course, the warm waves of water, moved by unseen bathtub forces. The heat and water and wavy stucco patterns melt into one another, lulling me to sleep while I’m still asleep.
Usually what happens in these dreams is that the waves pull me under, or I turn face-down or something. I sink deeper and deeper into the water, no longer confined by acrylic walls and grouted tiles. Sometimes, I wake from these dreams gasping like a fish, treading sheets – but I never wake up feeling cold.
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