“Did you enjoy your bath?” she asked once he stopped singing to her.
“I did, “he replied, leaning back into the bench, willing it into a recliner. “But I only washed off the offensive parts… or the attractive parts. “You know,” he continued, suddenly a connoisseur,” the natural aroma of man is an aphrodisiac.”
Leaving that nugget of information hanging in the air between them, he began singing another song. At first, the women seemed annoyed, pursing her lips and looking down at her feet while her chin rested on her hand, almost pouting. But now that he’s moved onto bathing techniques and bodily odors, her face appears relaxed, her gaze loving.
The man wore freshly pressed jeans, a long sleeve white tee shirt tucked in neatly, and a shiny silver vest on top. He appeared to be in his late 40’s. The woman he was educating on scent and attraction wore a red-sequined blouse. Her hair fluffed out around her head as if she accidentally bumped into a baby cumulus cloud, dropped from the sky by a careless mama cloud, and it plopped right on top of this unsuspecting woman’s head.
The man continued to sing to her. Trying to remain discreet since I was sitting right across from them, I conjured up my inner sloth and slowly raised my eyelids up from my book to search for clues about this couple. Were they mother and son, or husband and wife? The woman had the velvety powdered white complexion that I hope to develop or acquire, as I age. Such skin speaks of cold creams, sitting in the shade, and lavender scented dusting powder from a flowered compact case. I the little corner of my mind that lights up with eavesdropping like an attic light at midnight, I could already see her applying the cold cream in broad strokes over her forehead and down the slope of her nose before she climbed into bed under her rose colored comforter.
I wondered why the man was taking a bath around 2pm in the afternoon. I don’t know many men that take baths period. My own husband wrinkles his nose at the very notion of a bath. The song he sings right now does not sound familiar to me at all. It feels strangely personal to be sitting right here in the foyer of my daughter’s elementary school, surrounded by things like PTO fliers about a volunteer luncheon,the poster encouraging us to Vote Yes on the Carmel School Referendum, and the flag. Even the flag,stretching toward the ceiling as it guards the front doors, shifting its weight back and forth, seems somewhat uncomfortable.
After a few moments of attempted undercover eavesdropping and observing, I bring my book and my curiosity outside to wait, leaving Mrs. Whitecloud and the half-bathed man to his serenading.
People watching at its best.
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