The water is bearably hot, to offset the inevitable chill. Fingers swirl the water. Making pretty pink designs upon the surface.
Disjointed thoughts drift upward on the rising steam as a contented smile plays on slackening lips. Chances missed, opportunities ignored, mistakes made, apologies unspoken.
No regrets.
Leaning into the warmed porcelain embrace. Snuggling deeper into the warmth. Twin rivers of red flowing not so slowly into the relaxing bath.
A random thought skitters by. Which will win the cosmic coin toss? The emptying of the shell? Or the waters waiting for a slip beneath the surface?
Whatever....
No regrets.
My 100 words for Debonair. (And just for the record, I'm not suicidal, I just go where the muse takes me.)
