It wasn't a particularly attractive. It had a grey western commode, a grey sink, and a grey mirror-closet, both suffering previtiligo - threatening to go white. Even the view from the window wasn't particularly spectacular. The neighbour's barren bedroom, and occasional liaisons with a loved one, peeked between tilted serrated glass. Both, handheld and overhead showers stopped working, so she resorted to a grey bucket, coupled with a grey mug.
There, she'd spend twenty minutes in solitude, everyday, her left hand dousing her form with water. One brother, two parents, a dozen or two of friends and one unsurviving boyfriend later, these twenty minutes were hers.
Alone.
She liked her water either very hot, or very cold. Season was irrelevant, function was important: cold to rouse, hot to lull. But she was partial to cold water.
There was never hurry. She'd treat herself to a tiny shriek when cold water established contact and would giggle when the water forced its way into her ear.
She'd watch how water droplets, each clinging on to her nails, afraid of gravity - would extend her otherwise pruned nails. She loved the way water would course, down her eyebrows. Rivulets would run from the locks of her hair that hugged her shoulders; drip from her full lips.
Water would course, halving her body symmetrically, celebrating her irrespective of her uneven tan, scarred shins, splinted ends, shaving nicks.
The mirror told her she had a nice smile, inclusive of a tiny glimmer of light that is portrayed in her eyes. She'd wrinkle her nose, her reflection faithfully repeating. Her navel, her long lashes and slightly full lips were her favourites. She's half smile at her cleavage, young lowerback, arching into her full, but slightly bow legs ending in her ankles that she didn't like. But neither soap, nor loofah cared.
Her eyes would crinkle at their corners, once she's examine her fresh, wrinkle-when-wet self, dried. Her eyelashes, clumped together, would match her wavy hair, now settled comfortably.
She was thankful to those twenty minutes everyday.
Not because they were sensual.
But because they were twenty minutes alone.
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