As I write this I risk my words being blurred by the water I am currently emerged in. You may laugh because my words are always slightly confusing (over the phone, across the table at a café, and surely after a bottle of wine), so I am confident that regardless you will derive the most from this postcard.
Since you cannot be here, I will set the scene for you. My feet hang from the left of the bathtub like an unhooked bra dangling in the seduction of the night. Freshly shaved, they are as smooth as Chinese silk and as polished as your grandmother’s finest silver. My stomach is not half bad, though you know how I loathe it even at its most exquisite. I imagine how if you were here amongst the bubbles and smell of lavender oil, you would intertwine your fingers and place them at the cleavage of my back. Creating a cocoon with your handsome arms, you would pull me closer and kiss my belly. You would insist I stop hating myself and begin admiring the territory that I own—every inch of my land. How I love when you are stern with me! I feel young and intolerable then, and extremely submissive.
The candles cradle the outskirts of the tub. Artificial lights are inexistent. Therefore, the flickering glow serves as my only light source. You can imagine how writing this is such a challenge. But than again, what is romanticism without difficulty? What is intimacy without a subtle touch of mystery, of darkness, of the hunger for absolute light?
I miss you, darling. And must tell you, I have cried more tears than could fill this bath without having it overflow. But do not worry about me. I shall not sink, but only rise in the anticipation of us being together soon. Once you get this run yourself a bath and phone me. I will be waiting right where I am now. It will be like a first date, but without the kiss underneath the wreath at my doorstep.
I will be waiting right where I am now. My skin turning to prunes and the candles burning down. Hurry! Run yourself a bath before the sunlight robs us of our intimacy.