"I draw you a bath and sit on the warm, damp edge of the tub while you soak and the water turns gray and the weight of the underworld floats up and gathers around your chest. I wash you clean with plain soap, drain the tub, fill it with fresh water. Often, I join you, step into the warmth, let you peel me naked. I lie between your thighs, cover your hands in mine as you touch me. I drown in your body, how it has changed since you found your calling to dig until you found the center of the world. Your arms are wrapped in thick muscle, muscles that ripple when you breathe. There are things you could do to me I would not recover from if you were a different kind of man. My father is that different kind of man. We don’t talk about it but you know what I know about bad men who don’t or won’t do right by their women. You try to help me forget. When we are in the bath together, you touch me everywhere. If I try to wrap my arms across my chest, you smile gently and I relax, let my arms float at my sides. My hair clings to my face and when I try to move the wet strands away, you grab my wrist, sending a thrill through my heart. You shake your head. You say you are always perfect exactly as you are. You show me my perfection. The water never cools."