Then November arrived and they overflowed with the cascading sheen that covered Brisbane. This round of thunderstorms brought me the glorious scene of a naked woman bathing in a stream of water, behind wet, foggy glass. I could’ve spent hours watching Nina and those streams meander across the curves of her body, foamy suds making their way down into her secret places.
“Do it again,” I said.
“I said… do it again. Wash your hair again.”
“It’s clean already,” she replied, blinking through a film of water.
“Do it again,” I demanded.
“It doesn’t need it.”
“I’m not interested if it needs it!”
“Why? What are you going to do if I do?”
“What do you think I’m gonna do, bake a soufflé? I’m going to watch.”
She giggled and looked at me with a smile. “Okay.” She reached for the bottle of shampoo, poured some of the gooey liquid into her hands and began to work it through her hair.
“Make sure you get it good and clean. I want lots of foam.”
I raised my voice. “Good and clean! Lots of foam this time!”
She nodded in acknowledgement and then rubbed her hair until a giant lathery turban of foam overflowed and large globules began to land around her feet.
“Come over here,” I said.
She stepped towards the glass with her hands still in her hair.
“Not that way,” I said. “Turn away. I want to see your back.”
She turned, wiggled her bottom and then said, “Now what?”
“Stand up straight. That’s better! And for God’s sake, take your damn hands out of your hair! You look stupid!”
“Hey! No need to be nasty!” She twisted and dropped her arms by her side.
“Can’t you be quiet for a minute?”
“Hang on a minute.”
A moment or two went by. She slapped a hand against her hip. “Well?”