Last of the Rosewater

Stepped into a bathtub full of hot water, too hot, with the last of my rose scented bubble bath from a heavy glass bottle one would think had been filled with champagne.  Eased my knees gently into the scalding water and breathed deeply through the burn.  Focused on the patterns of the foamy bubbles gliding across the water, somewhere between cirrocumulus and altocumulus clouds, if my bathtub was turned upside down, along with gravity.  Breathed in the scent of roses as my body relaxed into the heat and achieved a vague sort of numbness.  I stretched my legs in front of me, let the muscles of my lower back capitulate their tension, and slid my upper back and neck down into the water, folding up my legs so they could remain warm.  Other than the back of my legs remaining anchored against the bathtub floor, my body in that position always feels like it’s floating.  Floating on my back in a pool always feels like simultaneously surrendering to and mastering the water I’m in and its laws and currents; I have to fully relax my body, which used to feel so strange when I first learned how to float that way, while remaining in control of my relaxation.   
 
I like things that require balance between two opposing forces.  One muscle tenses and I start to fall.  
 
But in the bathtub with my legs anchored, I can’t fall.  Laying there with my ears underwater, my breathing sounds heavy, very heavy, the way movies and tv shows make breathing dramatically sound when someone is scuba diving, or walking in outer space.  I close my eyes after a few minutes and start to feel dangerously like I could fall asleep.  I guess that’s one way I could fall.
 
Eventually, my breasts always start to feel very cold, as they’re the only parts of me sticking up out of the cozy warmth, and I lap warm water at them and sit upright, fold an arm over them and begin to soap myself up.