Some quiet time

She had her head leaned against the wainscoting, the bathwater was only lukewarm, and she was crying. Her body was submerged in her claw-foot tub from the breasts down and the soap had left traces floating along the surface of the water, turning it milky. The world was so quiet, just a tiny drip from the tub faucet, her sobs, and a quiet whir from the air conditioning through the vents. It had been a stressful week at work and then the bombshell. This tub time was giving her the sort of peace and quiet and cry-time that she needed.

She wiped her face, trying to gather herself, and looked around her bathroom, seeing the new pedestal sink, the black and white tiles and then her bathrobe, crumpled on the floor, with the letter, the cause of her pain, sticking out of the pocket. When she saw it in the mail yesterday, the name, the postmark address, her heart thudded into her chest, but she left it in the pile then, ignored it, and went about her business. This morning, while sipping her coffee she remembered it, and against her better judgment, she tore it open. She knew the letter would be confirmation of her finding out and she was ready for whatever was coming, or she thought she was. When she finished reading it, the tears already forming, she shoved it with her fist into her bathrobe. It was worse than she could have ever imagined. Now the letter was mocking her again, popping itself of her bathrobe and name calling “You’re the slut!”