The gentle mist gave way to a powerful spray, but the transition between the two was seamless, subtle. Kylie closed her eyes and tilted her head to feel the hot water rain against her face. 

She sensed him before the soft blush of cool air swirling into the shower offered evidence of an opened and closed door. Kylie turned to look at her husband of 15 years. He was standing at the sink, reaching for a washcloth. Nick’s face was sunburned, his squint-wrinkles lined and underlined with dirt and sweat. She loved those wrinkles, lines to mark age, resilience. Commitment.

He hated them.

Nick had asked her to help with the garden. His garden. She was stunned and had responded with a cartoon expression of surprise, drawing both hands to an open mouth that morphed into a smile dotted by two emerald eyes.

Of course! Just tell me what to do.

The left side of his mouth had turned up to acknowledge her exaggerated reaction and her botanical ignorance in the same smirky grin.

White tomatoes.

She didn’t like the white tomatoes. Oh, they tasted great. With eyes closed they might have been some of the best tomatoes she’d ever tasted. But she didn’t eat with her eyes closed. That’s what she said the first time he’d served them.

Nick reminded her of this every chance he got. Twice while they were harvesting them today. It made her like them even less.

He buried his face in the waterlogged washcloth. Kylie turned her body, faced the vanity. The torrent surged against her left side, cascading across her stomach, down her legs. Through the water-beaded glass door she could see all of herself in the mirror.  She looked good for a forty-year-old woman who almost never took body-altering supplements.

Damn good.

Kylie placed her hands against her flat stomach, fingers spread to reveal her belly button. She willed Nick to look at her.

He didn’t look up.

Kylie glanced at the control panel again. The diffuser was set to “Two-Way Clear”, not her usual setting, “One-Way Privacy.” For the first time in years she was inviting him into her sacred space. It’s not like they hadn’t shared a few showers together in the early years of their marriage. But over time, as routine and familiarity turned into reticence and eventually retreat, she’d claimed her shower time as her own.

It’s the only time I have just for me.

The glass and tile and chrome box had become her safe haven. And though the compromise that led to installation of expensive diffuser glass might have brought the illusion of a shared space, two “Privacy” settings continued to guarantee her a few minutes of daily solitude even when Nick was running late for work and had to steal into the bathroom to shave and brush his teeth.

But not today. She wanted him to look. She wanted her husband to glance in the mirror, become transfixed by her naked body - her sexy, water-soaked, raspberry-scented naked body - turn, take two steps, throw open the door and join her under the waterfall, clothes and all. She wanted him to wrap her in an embrace and speak with a torrent of kisses of his love for her. Of his desire for her.

As Nick went to hang the washcloth on the towel rack, he knocked his watch onto the heated tile floor. He picked it up - the glass face was shattered and the second hand had stopped.

9:45.

He didn’t swear. He just shook his head. He looked up, but just then the shower glass turned opaque.

Kylie swore.

Damn this glitchy technology!

She reached for the control panel...