A woman on the run. A woman who believed, perhaps foolishly, that a hot shower and a stiff drink could rinse away moral complication. On the porcelain ledge sat her companion. A glass of gin. Cold. Courageous. Her favorite shower beverage. The steam curled around it like gossip.

She stepped beneath the water. Relief arrived in waves.

Elsewhere in the motel, another waited. He wore the smile of Anthony Perkins. Polite. Over rehearsed. In his hand, a brush. Yellow. Earnest. Overqualified for scrubbing.

A poor decision bloomed. The curtain was torn aside with theatrical commitment. “Want me to,” he said enthusiastically, “scrub your back?”

The woman turned. Screamed. A legendary scream, sharpened by surprise and indignation.

History paused. The violins, confused, hung in the air like unanswered letters.

The woman clutched the shower curtain, water cascading, gin sloshing dangerously close to disaster. She screamed again, this time with clarity, authority, and a lifetime of boundaries.

“OUT!.”

He smiled with the unearned optimism of one who believes every day is a gift.

“Okey dokey,”

In his mind, he had been a gentleman. A helper offering service. Down the corridor he went, humming a tune, feet damp, conscience dry.