Dawn
She returned to the door-handle for a final try.
Peeling away the towel that clung reassuringly tightly to
her body, she stood before the three-quarter length mirror that preserved her
from the ignominy of including her feet within the whole-body appraisal. For a
moment she stood like a soldier on parade, her eyes fixed ahead, trying to avoid
the areas urging further inspection. There was something reassuringly naked
about being naked; this was who she was, the true her that only she knew. Her
eyes began their journey, tracing the contours like a cartographer, critiquing
the charted – and uncharted – territory. Sliding her hands around her hips, she
slowly sucked in the nervous air and watched intently – head tilted to the
right – as she perused her body afresh, her eyelashes blinking rapidly as
though struggling to know how to assess what stood before them.
A loud cough echoed in the landing, initially concealing
the footsteps that were increasing in intensity as Jarrod marched out of his
room.
She crossed her arms across her chest, before reaching
with the outstretched fingers of her right hand for the towel that she quickly
wrapped around a body that had in one cough become the focal point of inherent
shame and embarrassment. Not a breath escaped her lips, her ears intently
following the now static footsteps that seemed to have paused outside her room.
As Jarrod turned the handle, she began to tremble and
plunged her upper teeth into her drying lips. She clutched the towel tighter
and stared intently at the door.
It remained shut as Jarrod entered the bathroom opposite.
She heard the door close and the lock that she had forgotten click into place,
as a further cough – more muffled and distant than before – cut through the
unnecessary tension.
She was fourteen when her dad had burst in on her
standing towel-less before her mirror, his embarrassment manifesting itself in
uncontrolled laughter and persistent pleas of apology, hers invoking a lasting
paranoia that, despite what the lock on the door might suggest, she was never
truly alone. Although two doors protected her from Jarrod’s over-eager eyes –
she wondered afresh why she had flirted with an unlocked bathroom – it took her
a full minute to summon the courage to move and, even then, she maintained a
firm clutch on the towel with her left hand, whilst the right padded the bed
softly in search of underwear she was sure must be close by. The prospect of
needing to walk across to the dresser and open the stiff upper drawer filled
her with unjustified dread until, finally, the sound of rushing water indicated
a moment’s concealment within the roar of the flush. She rose and skipped
across the room, releasing her grip to free the necessary second hand for the
battle that lay ahead. As the towel crumpled to the floor, the drawer flew
open, the momentum sending her staggering backwards.
A fierce creak from the hallway confirmed her suspicions
that Jarrod’s hand-washing speed was now reaching record-levels, as his
footsteps shuffled between the two rooms. Closing her eyes, Dawn prayed his
movements would be swift, his decisions immediate. Of late, Jarrod had taken to
pausing outside the rooms, creating the impression that he had somehow glided
noiselessly past before finally moving on with audible nonchalance.
The footsteps continued and, as he clicked his door back
into place, Dawn fell backwards, arms spread wide like a skydiver, crashing
onto the bed below. Her heart pounded, gradually returning to resting pace as
she puffed the air out of her cheeks.
It was about time she began her day.
---------
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