Alright, don’t panic. Calm. Collected. Untroubled. Don’t breathe too fast. Don’t look down too much. Assuage. Temperance. Relieve. Rest. Reprieve. Is reprieve a befitting synonym? Is she dead? She’s dead. There is a dead, naked woman in your bathtub. And what a bathtub! An iron-clad claw foot bathtub with solid brass fixtures and a marble soap dish. A beautiful standalone unit, on tiger paws beneath the Southern accent window coverings, decorated toward the ambition of a delicate ambiance, perfect for . . . reprieve. You should probably unlace your shoes. Pink bathwater is spilling onto your tiled floor. Most guests agree they afford the room a rustic dignity — these polished desert yellow Jerusalem Stone tiles, quarried from Palestine and laid with the utmost attention to detail. My God, they must think, what magnificent tiles!

You came home and there she was. There she is, blue and getting grayer. “Death,” you tell yourself, “poor, poor girl. Maybe I could have tried to afford a better bathtub to die in. I’m honest. Believe me, my wife will be home in an hour. I need to wash my hands and pledge sixty sit-ups an evening to keep her interest.” You should also trim your nails. And remember to buy potpourri. The faucet is not running. The application of her makeup indicates a precise attention to detail. The absence of clothing, the soft curve of her neck, her choice of setting begs a pertinent question . . . but which one? What runs through the mind of a dying naked woman in a strange colonial bathroom at four in the afternoon?

What do the neighbors think? Johnson McCantley next door, most likely on his couch — a gaudy black leather sectional — thinks, no doubt all the time, about bathing in this room. You can see it in his eyes when he says hello walking past, green with envy. It’s hard to stay humble. Johnson’s wife left him last August. Keeping a wife is very important. She fell in love with another man when she found Jesus, an unruly-haired Mexican gentleman who touched her in the park one afternoon.

Your bathroom is rich with therapeutic candles of assorted floral scents. “I enjoy the finer things in life,” you tell yourself, “my wife is very beautiful.” Which she is. The envy of other wives. The girl’s finger twitches slightly. Look at her. She looks like your wife on the wedding night. Not gray . . . but very young. And twitchy. She looked lively in the hotel bed on the honeymoon night, staring up at you, an air of sensuality. You re-arranged the chairs several times to promote a lascivious atmosphere and domesticate certain animal urges. While the last woman you will ever sleep with lay there, waiting. She said, “For Christ’s sake, Walter, you’re more concerned with establishing a setting than focusing on the task at hand.”

The girl’s fingernails are painted red, at least the five not underwater. Blood is pouring down the arms. The terrycloth towels are still in the closet. A pink nipple rises like an island in an ocean of diluted ketchup. The fingers are starting to curl into themselves. No, no, you shouldn’t smell her hair. A clear view of the legs is lost at the shin, under the water. The knees appear not too knobby and she has small, delicate toes. Alright, calm down. Focus. It is very warm in this bathroom. You should roll up your sleeves, you should loosen your tie — a very crisp necktie woven from Italian silk and very distinguished sleeves of the highest thread count. Breathe. Your wife will be home in an hour. She promised to cook your favorite dish, rosemary chicken marinated in lemon and black pepper. And perhaps this smell will have begun to fade. Can’t have the place reeking to high heaven with a rosemary chicken on the premises. Your house is protected by a lovely red oak door. Your wife still insists on that eyesore of a welcome mat. She can be quite difficult sometimes, insisting on that ratty doormat, with tattered fibers and ‘Welcome’ spelled in faded-green block letters. One should never welcome anything on such obvious terms. It’s gaudy and out of place. It used to belong to her grandmother’s country porch. She argues it has value of sentiment. It has been linked with kind memories and thus, is justified. You begged her to consider a thin rug or rococo placemat. She is very difficult. This doormat upsets the balance of your entrance. People will make assumptions. But your wife, your wife is fond of something that does not belong, preoccupied with such a small detail — God bless her — you do not want the doormat, your wife insists on the doormat. Such is the nature of life, caught in the pull, trying to approach an impossible situation.