In the flower garden
You tell me off for being happy. There, she had told him, while locked in the bathroom plunging her hand in the bath.
Her hair was never really tidy, the table a mess, her mouth lined, the sink leaky, the most expensive dress of the area never worn, cruise prints on show.
Two years were few to come out like this, for a couple that had come on nicely, with no last-minute madness and with no nonsense. Nonsense in the family jargon was occasional cheating, the sort that has no consequences.
She heard him opening and closing drawers. 
Here we go again. More bed linen. You buy layers upon layers of pointless bed linen. Do you realise or not?
Meanwhile, a boy who hides his parent’s slippers in an afternoon, too pale for his age, occupied her thoughts, while her body was fully immerged in a citrus scent. She cheered up when she saw that there weren’t many bubbles and she carefully massaged her face, as if it were holy water. For a few minutes she kept her eyes closed, then she let her neck rest on the edge of the bathtub and fell asleep.
He was coming in to get his things without adding anything else. Maybe a “see you” should have been uttered, but he wasn’t sure so he wouldn’t say it. With the air of someone who had already left or who regretted still being there, he slammed the door so hard that a little water moved, falling down like a small waterfall. The nymph had woken up and he, rooted to the spot, was in front of her, like the statue of a garden in full bloom.