The Shower

*contains frank language

What did he think was going to happen?

Lounging in the sun, warm tropical air touching every part of her body, Judy Millar caresses her drink. Blue, she thinks to herself. Where but on a Caribbean island would I be drinking something blue?

The server had called it Blue Paradise, and the young woman’s Bahamian lilt had offered greater promise than the sticky, sweet rum concoction delivered. Blue Curaçao, she thought dismissively, not for the first time. A beautiful island certainly, but as confusing a society—Dutch and Caribbean—and country could be with its most recognized export based on bitter, misshapen oranges blended to bright colours and thrown into drinks as an afterthought.

Much as Judy herself was. An afterthought. Fucking husband, she muttered internally. Looking across the crowded beach, she realized she hadn’t yet verbalized her frustration. Good thing. No need for her fellow tourists to have additional reason to avoid the wispy Canadian.

Good riddance to him.

No matter where in the resort Judy ventured this morning, she had felt their eyes. That’s the one, she imagined the sunburned folks whispering. She’s the one.

It had started innocently, as most things do. They—she and her husband—had just settled at the most casual of the resort’s many restaurants, when he decided that was the perfect moment to deliver the news.

“I’m in love,” the ass declared. And Judy wasn’t so far gone on drink that she didn’t immediately know that he wasn’t referring to her and their own twenty-seven years together.

Why now? she thought. Day three of a seven-day resort stay. Who the fuck delivers such news when they are trapped on a foreign island with their spouse for another four days, plus another day of airport misery?

Her asshole, that’s who.

Half lit from various bartenders’ pathetic attempts at whiskey sours—if only the resort emphasized depth of skill equally with friendliness of service—Judy had considered Franklin’s idiotic admission.

Did he really think this was the way to deliver news that their marriage was over? That this was safe, and that she wouldn’t react and cause a scene.

Of course, she wouldn’t over-react. Canadian. Restrained. Passive. She would play along, but she would not do the heavy-lifting for the crumb. “What are you saying?”

“We haven’t been happy—” he started. Okay, she wasn’t going to play along.

“Don’t be putting this shit on me, you pathetic fuck! Jesus!” she half-whispered through clenched teeth.

“Alright, settle down,” he said, looking around. He started again. “I’ve not been happy, and I’ve fallen in love.”

“You lying, miserable fuck. Who?”

Almost ashamed, but with pride peeking through, he whispered, “Maddy.”

“Maddy?” Nothing. She doesn’t know a Maddy. She groaned then, realizing. “Helen and Rob’s Maddy? Are you fucking kidding me?” Had she ever used the word ‘fuck’ and its variations this much?

Shaking her head in disgust, she took hold of her wine glass and shot back the remnants of the warmed but still passable white. “Our babysitter? What a cliché you are.”

“Former,” he clarified.

“Yeah, former babysitter. When did you start in on her?” Silence was her answer.

She looked around the dim restaurant, amiable locals following paths of service as if controlled by an unseen force. Perhaps they were, the whims of the privileged. Her gaze returned to her husband’s sun- and wind-burned face.

Shit, she had sucked his cock the night before, devouring him in a manner she seldom any more allowed. Fuck! True, he had returned the favour with considerable gusto, but she felt so foolish, having spent minutes worshiping his dick as he most obviously didn’t deserve.

Jesus, had that little bitch done the same for him? Of course, she had—what else was the point of hooking up with a twenty-fucking-something- year-old, pre-med student if it wasn’t to have your pathetic prick polished by pouty lips that hadn’t had time to age. Bastard!

It came to her in a rush.

“So, that’s it? We’re done?” she asked.

He sighed. “We both know life is too short to waste…” he started. Another cliché coming.

“Save it.” She casually rose from her chair, her sundress flowing around her calves. “You got your key?”

He nodded, sheepishly meeting her eyes for the first time since unleashing the bomb. “Eat. Go have a couple drinks. Hell, have three or five. Give me an hour. I may not throw the security latch,” was her final retort as she placed her napkin on her empty place-setting. She turned, and calmly ambled toward the dark.

The hour was put to good use, if she did allow herself to be so bold. By the time she heard Franklin making two or three attempts to slip the keycard into the slot, Judy was feeling much better and definitely more clear-headed. Most importantly, her preparations had gone perfectly.

Her makeup was impeccable, her hair flowing. She reclined on the pillows of the bed, a flimsy gown—purchased in anticipation of more debased occasions during this week away—hiding little of her body. Let his eyes take in this, she thought. And then we’ll see who is leaving who.

Franklin slunk into the room, slipping his sandals off at the door. As he rounds into the main part of the darkened room, his alcohol-heavy eyes widen. Whatever it was he was expecting, it wasn’t to see his wife splayed out wantonly, a come hither look about her.

“Uh…” was the most he could muster.

“You have five minutes to shave and shower. I want you to remember what you are giving up. Hurry.”

A smile curling his lips, he rushes into the washroom. The clatter of his razor against porcelain and rhythmic bursts of water hitting the sink reach Judy as she leans back, waiting. The toilet flushes and the water in the shower starts running. She pictures him adjusting the temperature, absently stepping over the tiled-ledge into the stall. Not the most practical design, large ceramic tiles with a sheet of glass enclosing only the end nearest the shower head. But, she hopes, efficient.

And there it is—an exhalation! A cry of surprise. And a wet crack. Excepting the bass pounding from the wedding party outside the window—“Dancing Shoes” moving into “Celebration”—the only sound heard is a cascade of water hitting flesh.

After a moment, Judy gathers herself and walks to the bathroom door. Taking a deep breath, she reaches for the handle and turns downward. The crack of light widens, and a small amount of steam pools past the door and into the cooler room. Stepping in, she sees his body akimbo in the stall, water running pale pink. Leaning in, she sees only the smallest of movements, Franklin’s chest barely moving. She reaches for a facecloth and uses it to adjust the spray directly into his face. His head, still touching the raised tile edge where it had connected with all the force a falling body can generate, doesn’t move as water sprays onto his face and, she hopes, into his nasal passages and throat. Judy drapes the cloth over his nose and mouth. Waterboarding, anyone?

Leaving him in this position, she returns to the main room.

In a couple hours, all traces of the liquid soap and shampoo with which she had liberally coated the floor of the shower will have disappeared down the drain. If all goes right, his final breaths will have taken in water and he will not awaken.

She crawls into bed, allowing the pillows to embrace her. Her story will be simple, as close to the truth as possible.

When she woke, an hour or two after he came in following his nightcap, she had been surprised that her husband wasn’t with her. She called out, and only then did she hear the sound of water from the bathroom. She investigated, found his body. Grief-stricken, she called for assistance, the local authorities summoned in due course.

And, in the morning awaiting a hastily arranged flight home, she will sit for a few final hours overlooking the beach, undisturbed and solitary with a blue drink at hand, as around her whisperers ask, “Is she the one?” “Is she the one whose husband died in the shower?” “How awful—come all this way for something like that to occur.”

Really, what did he think was going to happen?