Zenitopia

Once a week, the maids come and go while she is out at work, and when she arrives home at the end of the day, not merely tired, but weary down to her soul, she is greeted with the faint scents of pine-sol and lavender. The former is cleaning fluid, she knows, the latter she has to think about, but each week it comes to her: linen spray she was given as a gift and keeps in the closet. They change the sheets, these maids in their blue t-shirts and khaki pants, and give the pillows a spritz of lavender, “for lucky dreams,” as her grandmother would have said.

They used to come on Wednesdays, but she changed the date to Friday because she leaves her office an hour earlier on that day, and likes coming home to spend the weekend in a sparkling-clean home. She’s grateful that she can afford the maid service, because they vacuum and dust and do all the things she never seems to, but her favorite feature is that she arrives home every night to a bathroom full of bright, white, welcoming porcelain and chrome.

It has become a ritual of sorts, to usher in the weekend with a bath. She begins by turning the space heater so that it faces the tub instead of the shower, and then she turns out the lights in the room, leaving only the hi-hat on over the tub, and a small lamp on her dresser in the adjoining master bedroom. She turns the radio to NPR, lights the candle that she keeps on the false wall at the end of the tub (it is vanilla), and starts the hot water, waiting for it to be completely heated before she closes the drain. A dash of cold water is added to the stream filling the spa-sized tub, and bubble bath that smells of tamarind and peach is poured beneath the tap. A fluffy towel is left on the sink, a bath-pillow affixed to the “head” end of the tub with suction cups, and a hand towel, washcloth, book and bottle of water are placed within reach.

She strips in the bedroom, walking into the bathroom without benefit of a robe, but wearing fluffy white slippers. Her long hair is pulled into a pony-tail then twisted into a bun on top of her head, and her watch is removed.

As the radio drones on, interspersing news, talk and light jazz, she steps gingerly into the hot, sudsy water, first her left foot, then her right. She turns around, then sits in the water, swishing it around a bit before she settles into a reclining position, adjusting her head against the pillow, and drying her hands before she picks up the book.

On Sunday, she will repeat this ritual, with wine instead of water, preparing herself for the week ahead, but for now, she is content to read and soak, until the water turns uncomfortably cool.