The bubble bath was pure heaven after the day I’d had.
I loved everything about my job. Every second I got to code was a challenge and a fulfillment. It was my own video game that I got to program, or really, my own empire, as Harley liked to joke. We’d dreamt a lot of it up together, and the company I worked for gave us everything we needed to make it shine. But sometimes, it took over, and it felt like I’d get no peace.
Like today. It was Saturday, and my wife had planned a birthday trip on the Seattle ferry to Bainbridge Island, which we’d always wanted to do, but’d never taken the time. And then, this morning, server haywire had awoken us in the form of a phone call at 4:00 AM, and I’d rushed to the office to get everything under control.
It’d taken ten hours.
I let all of that re-hash itself through my mind then melt into the hot water, and with it, the tension in my neck, shoulders, back, and wrists.
Oh, yes, the adjustable standing desk Harley’d bought me years ago made a difference, but then my feet hurt from standing, so it was up, down, up, down, all day, every day. There was just no way around it: long hours in front of a screen made everything hurt.
But bubble baths were perfect.
The day forgotten (well, not fully, you see, because I’m cursed with this uncanny memory, but I’ve learned to manage it. First tip: narrow your awareness. What you don’t notice, you won’t remember. That means I ignore a lot of people and probably make them think I’m a shrew, but it’s better in the long run if I don’t see every out-of-place hair strand, or bit of food in their teeth, or booger they need a tissue for. Yes, I know every time you’ve had something embarrassing in your countenance, so aren’t you glad I ignore you all the time?)
The day forgotten, I turned my attention to the wine glass on the lip of the tub. Not a puny one, a two-servings-full, deep red. The townhouse smelled of garlic, tomatoes, oregano, and basil. Lasagna. Had to be. So, the wine must be Chianti.
I lifted it to my lips, expecting the bite of Harley’s favorite red for lasagna, but it never came. This wine was smooth, almost buttery as it went down.
“Ummmmm,” I sighed. Malbec.
So, my wife was up to something. What was she planning? We almost never had Malbec. The last time was two Christmases ago, when she’d broken a bottle of Chianti on her way home from the wine store and had cried so hard over it we had to drink something other than her favorite to get back into emotional homeostasis.
If you’re thinking my wife could be a bit dramatic, you’re right about that, but it wasn’t the outta-control-drama-queen-annoying kind. It was the hilarious, high-energy, engaging, I-never-know-what-she’s-gonna-do-next,-and-that’s-the-best-thing-that’s-ever-happened-to-my-pattern-brain kind. Having an over-zealous memory and an affinity for pattern recognition meant that people were predictable to me, but when I met Harley, everything changed.
I smiled into my wine glass. Malbec. Harley. Bubbles. Melting into a hot bath. Perfection.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Sounds drifted from the kitchen, blending with the aromas, and I caught the scent of black olives in the undertone. Olives? She didn’t usually put them in lasagna. Or spaghetti, but the music fit.
Harley was listening to the three tenors’ “'O Sole Mio” on repeat, and I could just picture her in the kitchen singing into her favorite wooden spoon.
No, opera singer my wife was not, but she had a lovely voice and had learned enough Italian to sing this beautiful love song whenever she wanted. I giggled in the bath at her antics and loved her all the more.
The next time the song played, she sang it in English, probably for me, but I already knew the translation by heart. It didn’t matter. I was in the bath, and it was my birthday, and my wife wanted to serenade me.
What a wonderful thing, a sunny day
The serene air after a thunderstorm
The fresh air, and a party is already going on.
What a wonderful thing, a sunny day.
But another sun,
that’s brighter still
It’s my own sun
that’s in your face!
The sun, my own sun
It’s in your face!
It’s in your face!
When night comes and the sun has gone down,
I start feeling blue;
I’d stay below your window
When night comes and the sun has gone down.
But another sun,
that’s brighter still
It’s my own sun
that’s in your face!
The sun, my own —
Who was the song about? Me? Or her? It was a familiar argument, and I wished she were in the bath with me so I could insist that she was the sun, and always would be. The only star in the sky that really mattered. That was my Harley.
The last stanza cut off abruptly.
“Eeep!” Harley cried, then there was a crashing sound. I flew to my feet, wine glass slipping from my fingers. My wet feet hit the tiled floor, and it was suddenly as if the floor had never been there; all two-hundred and forty pounds of me landed rump first in Malbec and glass shards.
“Dammit!” I roared, and glass pierced my naked backside, but suddenly everything went weird.
I was covered in bubbles, but they started moving, coming alive, radiant with mesmerizing colors. Kaleidoscopes of pink and teal, baby blue and lavender. Prisms of pastel light illuminated the bathroom in sparkles you’ve never imagined.
Afire I was, Malbec within, and prickles of it without. The wine bit my punctured skin, and the bubbles met blood. I screeched, trying to keep the bubbles out of my wounds, swiping at my pale flesh, fighting back against nonsense, but that only made the soapy villain more determined, and next thing I knew, I was draped in a garment of glowing prismatic lather. I looked in the mirror.
My wavy red hair was resplendent, and my creamy complexion shone. The rest of me? Clad in a warrior’s garments made of lavender-scented foam.
“I’m a fucking foaming-hand-soap princess,” I moaned. What kind of nightmare birthday was this?
Then suddenly, bright blue text scrolled before my eyes. I waved my hands in front of my face, trying to push it away.
Name: Muriel McIntyre
Age: 29
Role: Fucking Foaming Hand Soap Princess
“Noooo!” I screeched.
Yuuuussssss!
The blue text scrolling across my vision enraged me. Sassy? I had a sassy system message interface? The fuck? Hells no!
“You will not!” I yelled defiantly.
Do you wish to live?
“Do you?!” I demanded back.
Well played, Muriel. Would you like access to your Skills?
“Fuck that! Convos with interfaces are boring AF! Skill me and forget the dialogue!”
I heard screeches and slamming, crashing dinnerware, and “Oh fucking hell” curses coming from the kitchen. I reached for a towel but noticed neither I nor the floor were wet, so I careened down the hallway toward the kitchen, unprepared for what I saw next.
