Michelle used to love baths. She remembered being a teenager and lying in the old bathtub upstairs and her headphones blocking out the screaming match Danny was having with her dad . She never could understand why they didn't get along.

No one else in her family wanted to take the time for a long bath. Her parents took quick showers, always rushing through the day. Have to take you to school and then to piano lessons and then Danny has baseball practice and...she remembered her mom going on and on.

Was there ever a time that worrying about being five minutes late for Miss Della was the biggest concern in her life?

Then, the inevitable knock on the door from someone who needed to get inside and she'd yank off her headphones and step out of the bath and dry herself off, then before the person could knock again, swing open the door and glare at them. "I was getting out soon anyway," she'd say, padding down the wooden floor to her room.

She never had time nowadays. Coming home from shifts that made her dad's job seem like part-time work, she'd run into the shower needing to scrub away the day as quickly as possible. The idea of taking a bath never occurred to her, so that when they moved into their first place she didn't notice what the bathroom was missing.

It was a good enough shower. But utilitarian, only good for cleaning and some extra curricular activities. There was no relaxation in it though, no slipping into bubbles or feeling her body cushioned by water. It was just there.

After today, she wanted the bath. She needed the escape and as she stepped into the bathroom she touched the shower door and leaned her head against the glass, tears slipping down her face no matter how hard she tried to stop them.

Everywhere was a reminder of Tony. His razor in the shower. His toothbrush. Even the quick post-it note he left on the mirror this morning "Need more toothpaste and soda". Somehow, the bathroom mirror had become a kind of message board because it was the only place they both looked at every day without fail.

She crumpled up the note in her hand and threw it into the small sky blue garbage can. Wait, she saw something on the back and reached into the thankfully clean can and smoothed out the note on the narrow counter.

"Don't forget, dinner at 8. Love you." He'd written quickly, probably before rushing back into the bedroom to kiss her goodbye.

She put her hand up to her face. No amount of bathing could ever comfort her again.

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