KERRY JEWELL - 26 NOV 2021

Rain Shower

Companion piece to ‘Small, baby steps’ by Zachary Pryor

There is a tap in Rhys’ shower that turns the head from rain to wand. Diverts the water stream with less strength than it takes to open the shower’s tinted glass door. Less strength than it takes to pump his shampoo from its overpriced bottle, bought from a boutique hairdresser on Chapel Street, scented like red lipstick and cedarwood.

A turmeric shade hand towel vibrates against the dark grey splashback next to twin stone basins. I know it’s turmeric, not saffron or rust, because the towel set matches the bed sheets, and the sheets match the table runner, and each piece of cloth was selected to complement the natural timber furniture common to the spaces in Rhys’ partially-renovated apartment. A fixer-upper ‘brick and tile’ in a soon-to-be desirable postcode. 

Bare back pressed against the bathroom door, I loosen the straps of my halter neck dress. Reach across the bench, manicured fingers slipping over the concrete, searching for something soft. Hating the way my polished nails don’t look like they belong to me anymore. Or my face. Or my clothes. 

How much it costs to stay so artificial. 

My hand finds the turmeric towel. I bunch it up between my bee-stung lips. Close my wet eyes brimming with tears, and let out a long, muffled scream.

*

Rhys and his married friends, Jules and Mike, work for the same property developer. She has a corner office in their marketing suite and Mike’s climbing his up way through legal. They pepper these facts throughout the opening round of small talk, inelegantly, as if my age and lack of a university degree excuse them from being tactful. Or at least socially polite enough to pretend to conceal their self-aggrandising agenda. Instead they batter me into submission with money talk and professional jargon, drawing breath only to needle about non-existent generational failings; so transparent as they grapple with being the wrong side of thirty, as if that even matters. They treat me like an object to be talked at, and talked about, not heard or included.

Dinner was my idea, a chance to meet some of Rhys’ inner circle — after six months of dating I thought it would be normal. Or the start of something more normal; less rooftop cocktails and more meat-and-three-veg home cooking. Except Rhys insisted on picking the menu, a bespoke plant-based delivery from one of Melbourne’s most celebrated vegan kitchens. Heirloom tomatoes. Truffled mushrooms. Burnt sage and walnut gnocchi. Each dish designed to give off the right appearance.

He’s only vegan on weekends though. Or when it suits his personal narrative. During the week Rhys prefers his steak with clients to be imported from Japan, prepared on the rarer side of medium rare. He orders for the both of us in a way that makes his receding hairline all the more visible.  

To my family steak is a birthday treat, bought on special from the fluorescent-lit meat section of our outer suburban supermarket. Cooked on the barbecue with onion rings until the edges turn charcoal, or until my brothers start a fire and call it done. Served on Nanna’s good crockery, the plate set without any chips or cracks. The grey meat tagged with tomato sauce and mushroom bits to hide the taste of smoke.

Now Rhys and I eat well-marbled sirloin on the weekly. On the rarer side of medium rare. He kicks me softly under the table when I start to cut away the gristle. Jokes with the clients about how my palate is too immature for full-blood wagyu, or the shiraz he’s paired with the meal, even though it’s the bottle I quietly recommended. He won’t introduce me to his family but loves to show me off to the business men. Loves the way they watch my body as his hands slide possessively across my lower back and bottom. 

Jules wears a power-suit in pastel lilac. Walks in heels so tall her ankles need strapping. She brought flowers from Prahran market wrapped in twine and chilled vodka in a frosted bottle. She says we should do shots before dinner, pours it neat without giving me a choice. I choke on the first repulsive mouthful; the liquid burns my nostrils and tongue and throat. Jules side-eyes Rhys, just for a moment, then brushes up against his leg. Her non-starter husband prattles on about stock units as she locks eyes with me over Rhys’ shoulder. Parts her lips and whispers in Rhys’ ear, all without breaking contact. She wants me to know she and my new boyfriend used to fuck. 

He wants me to know too.

*

Rhys likes the shower head to be on the rain setting. I prefer the wand. Once I left the tap in the incorrect position and spent an evening fighting over the visitor rules for his turmeric-coloured, driftwood-furnished, partially renovated apartment. Unsure why I was wrong. Now I remember to turn the tap back to its upright position after every wash, conditioned like a person berated for leaving the toilet seat up. Would it be easier if I just took the rain water? How long would it even last?

I crawl across the tiles, too tired and miserable to step. The bodice of my silk dress folds over itself, the waistband clinging too tight. I pull the shower door open, throw myself across the threshold, my bare upper torso pushed up against the cold granite wall. Mascara pooling beneath my eyes as I tug the shower mixer on. Rain tumbles down from the fixture. The mascara slips further down my cheeks. Dress stuck to my skin. I pick the shellac from my manicured nails and watch the raggedy pieces float away down the drain.

Jules knocks on the bathroom door. Asks if I need a hand? I yell back through the rainwater, I’ll be out in just a moment. Instead I flick the tap from rain to wand and remove my sodden gown. Stand and squeeze Rhys’ shampoo bottle; let the soapy water lather my skin. I pump the dispenser again and again, emptying his viscous syrup onto my thighs and feet and the slick tiles below. I pump until there is nothing left. He calls my name as the last of his overpriced shampoo slides towards the grate and disappears down the drain.