Photo from seekpng.com
By Nele Langhof
The bathwater stands lukewarm and rippling behind me as I rise from the confines of my ceramic bed. The flames of the tea lights lining the threshold of the tub stand erect and unwavering, yet one cinnamon stick falls into the water from the bench where my head was resting as my hair falls from its loose bun. The curls which land around my shoulders bring with their fall the smell of fresh spice, heralding in the beginnings of fall. Just as summer seems to have come to an end, I notice my wine glass is empty. The soft crackling of my vinyl player foreshadows the beginning of a new track.
As I wipe the suds from my legs — the therapy oils have made my skin shine and the flickering light of the candles send rainbows off the remaining water droplets — I hear the beginnings of piano music envelop me with the same warmth of my thick, deep cyan towel. The fast-paced, quick strikes of the keys mirror my accelerating heartbeat, and the repeated falls from Am7 to an F follows the rise and fall of my breaths. Inhale, exhale. William Shatner: the man, the myth, the legend. Oh, how his voice stirs my insides. As he begins to croon about knowing his lover’s scent, knowing her touch, knowing where she wants him to touch her and exactly how much, I begin to sway with the steady thrum of the bass in the background. Each hit of the high strings is a hip swivel to the left and each double of the low strings is a swing or two to the right. Quickly, I’ve fallen into a seemingly partnerless foxtrot — stepping this way and that, twirling around my bathroom.
He sings of the wonderful familiarity of an established relationship, and I imagine the night my honey and I sat doing a thousand-piece puzzle (because he laughs in the face of five hundred) well into the early hours of the morning. His whiskey drained and my wine replaced twice over, he invited me to dance in the living room as this same song began to play. I raise my arms to invite my imaginary partner in. My towel falls, but I pay it no mind because I know that I am safe and loved in his arms with William as our only witness. As William begins his mentions of the one-night stands and his anxieties waiting for the phone to ring, my partner dips me, and I point my toes toward the mirror which is still frosted with the fog of the room’s heavy heat. As William quickly transitions into the far preferred picnics with almond butter, Chinese takeout and the familiarities in touch and smell of his beloved, I am once again on both of my feet standing steadfast and just as in love as William is.
We sway together there, the three of us, against the jazzy drum beats and thrumming of the bass guitar, letting the waves of the chorus’s intermittent female voices wash over us. They say their familiarities have shown them where the truth is, and I believe them. Although I know my lover sits on the other side of town, probably hunched over his architect’s desk working on a commission piece, I also know that he is here with me. I know that I am on his mind just as he’s on mine, and I know that he can still feel my hands in his hair just as I can feel his hand firm on the small of my back.
As the song draws to a gentle close, I thank him for the dance. I curtsy the best I know how, naked in my bathroom alone yet not, with the bathwater frigid behind me. One candle has burned down to be fully liquid and extinguished itself. The persistent strength of the cinnamon draws me back to my proper time and place. “Boy, do I love that,” William says at the end of the track, sultry and reflective, as the musicians put down their instruments. I nod to myself with my hand over my heart.
Me too, William. Thank you.
Bulldog Beat 