She stands under the water until she’s newborn red. Until she could peel. The scalding heat eats its way over her skin, seeping into her bones as she allows the heaviness of water to tip her head backwards.
Two short cracks bisect on the ceiling. The paint curls away from their intersection like the leaves of an origami fortune teller a child might make. There is a swelling that pushes the furls apart; something round, something full, under the thin white skin. She stretches, wondering if it will be firm or soft, if it will tear as she brushes the pads of her fingers across it. But it is out of reach.
She spreads her hands flat across her stomach and arches her spine into the jet of hot water. The weight pushes her to her knees.
He’s been watching this wound surface, pushing through the cracks like a blister. A silent sore. He wonders if she thinks he’s turning a blind eye. Really he just doesn’t know what to do for the best.
But he knows it has gone past the point where he can keep on doing nothing, and he imagines the consequences of his failure to act as he squeezes his eyes shut, pushes his palms against the wall. He tries to concentrate on the water as it thrums over his scalp.
She presses her wrists against the cool porcelain of the sink as he leans in the doorframe. He reaches for her, asks her what she thinks it is. And she makes herself look up.