F*cking Foaming Handsoap Princess
Something smelled amazing.
It always did when I got home from work, but as I twisted the doorknob to our townhouse, I couldn’t deny that whatever my wife was cooking for dinner had me heading straight for the kitchen. Except Harley, said wife, was not having any of that.
“Nope!” she said, waving her arms, blocking my view of the kitchen, and jumping up and down. I tried looking past her, but that only made her more determined.
“To the bathroom with you!” she sang out, directing (nearly pushing) me to the side, away from the heavenly aromas.
“I don’t need to pee; I need dinner!” I complained.
“No, you need a nice, hot—“
Harley broke off as my eyes took in what she’d prepared for me in the bathroom. The tub was surrounded by lit candles and filled to overflowing with bubbles.
“— bubble bath,” I sighed, finishing my wife’s sentence.
I felt her arms around my waist and her chest against my back, fingers swiping ginger hair from my neck as she whispered against my ear, “Happy birthday, Red.”
“Thanks, Harley. This looks perfect.”
“So, you get comfortable because dinner is going to be a little bit—“
I cut her off, spinning in her arms, and wrapping one hand around the back of her neck.
“Coming home to you is always bliss, Har.”
I lingered a minute, watching her eyes widen and focus. Harley’s eyes always held my attention because the slight violet tint to the blue made me think impossible thoughts. Then I usually forgot everything else because the two of us together were a magic of our own.
Tonight was no different.
My nose found hers. My lips were next, covering her upper with mine, tongue sneaking a lick. A taste of red wine, tomatoes, and pure Harley.
She groaned against my mouth, arms tightening at my waist. I pushed into her, but she stepped back, breaking the kiss.
My eyebrows narrowed.
“You: bath. Me: kitchen,” Harley ordered, chest heaving.
“Well, at least I reduced you to two-word sentences.”
“Oh, you’ve still got it, Red. Six years of marriage isn’t enough. Now obey, or you won’t like the consequences.”
“Admit it, Har, there are no consequences.”
“There will be when I think them up,” she laughed, picking up a wine glass from the counter and pushing it into my hands.
As my wife backed outta the bathroom, I whispered, “Thanks, Har. This is perfect.”
Her face bloomed in a smile as I knew it would. Harley loved taking care of me, but praise and spoken words were one of her love languages too, even though I wasn’t always great at them.
“You’re welcome, Muriel.”
“Best birthday ever!” I called at her retreating back, pulling the plus-sized, long-sleeve green tee over my head. The bathroom floor swallowed the rest of my clothes, and I slipped into heaven. Bubbles that smelled of lavender and chamomile; water so hot it almost burned.
Closing my eyes and leaning my head back, I let the day melt away, and with it, the tension of long hours at the keyboard.
“Thank you, Harley. Peace and quiet after a long day,” I sighed softly to myself.
Ha, ha, ha. Famous last words.
The bubble bath was pure heaven after the day I’d had.
I loved everything about my job. Every second I got to code was a challenge and a fulfillment. But sometimes, it took over, and it felt like I’d get no peace.
Like today. It was Saturday, and my wife had planned a birthday trip on the Seattle ferry to Bainbridge Island, which we’d always wanted to do, but’d never taken the time. And then, this morning, server haywire had awoken us in the form of a phone call at 4:00 AM, and I’d rushed to the office to get everything under control.
It’d taken ten hours.
I let all of that re-hash itself through my mind, then melt into the hot water, and with it, the tension in my neck, shoulders, back, and wrists.
The day forgotten (well, not fully, you see, because I’m cursed with this uncanny memory, but I’ve learned to manage it. First tip: narrow your awareness. What you don’t notice, you won’t remember. That means I ignore a lot of people and probably make them think I’m a shrew, but it’s better in the long run if I don’t see every out-of-place hair strand, or bit of food in their teeth, or booger they need a tissue for. Yes, I know every time you’ve had something embarrassing in your countenance, so aren’t you glad I ignore you all the time?)
The day forgotten, I turned my attention to the wine glass on the lip of the tub. Not a puny one, a two-servings-full, deep red. The townhouse smelled of garlic, tomatoes, oregano, and basil. Lasagna. Had to be. So, the wine must be Chianti.
I lifted it to my lips, expecting the bite of Harley’s favorite red for lasagna, but it never came. This wine was smooth, almost buttery as it went down.
“Ummmmm,” I sighed. Malbec.
So, my wife was up to something. What was she planning? We almost never had Malbec. The last time was two Christmases ago, when she’d broken a bottle of Chianti on her way home from the wine store and had cried so hard over it we had to drink something other than her favorite to get back into emotional homeostasis.
If you’re thinking my wife could be a bit dramatic, you’re right about that, but it wasn’t the outta-control-drama-queen-annoying kind. It was the hilarious, high-energy, engaging, I-never-know-what-she’s-gonna-do-next,-and-that’s-the-best-thing-that’s-ever-happened-to-my-pattern-brain kind. Having an over-zealous memory and an affinity for pattern recognition meant that people were predictable to me, but when I met Harley, everything changed.
I smiled into my wine glass. Malbec. Harley. Bubbles. Melting into a hot bath. Perfection.
Sounds drifted from the kitchen, blending with the aromas, and I caught the scent of black olives in the undertone. Olives? She didn’t usually put them in lasagna. Or spaghetti, but the music fit.
Harley was listening to the three tenors’ “O Sole Mio” on repeat, and I could just picture her in the kitchen singing into her favorite wooden spoon.
No, opera singer, my wife was not, but she had a lovely voice and had learned enough Italian to sing this beautiful love song whenever she wanted. I giggled in the bath at her antics and loved her all the more.
The next time the song played, she sang it in English, probably for me, but I already knew the translation by heart. It didn’t matter. I was in the bath, and it was my birthday, and my wife wanted to serenade me.
What a wonderful thing, a sunny day The serene air after a thunderstorm The fresh air, and a party is already going on. What a wonderful thing, a sunny day.
But another sun, that’s brighter still It’s my own sun that’s in your face! The sun, my own sun It’s in your face! It’s in your face!
When night comes and the sun has gone down, I start feeling blue; I’d stay below your window When night comes and the sun has gone down.
But another sun, that’s brighter still It’s my own sun that’s in your face! The sun, my own —
Who was the song about? Me? Or her? It was a familiar argument, and I wished she were in the bath with me so I could insist that she was the sun, and always would be. The only star in the sky that really mattered. That was my Harley.
The last stanza cut off abruptly.
“Eeep!” Harley cried, then there was a crashing sound. I flew to my feet, wine glass slipping from my fingers. My wet feet hit the tiled floor, and it was suddenly as if the floor had never been there; all two hundred and forty pounds of me landed rump first in Malbec and glass shards.
“Dammit!” I roared, and glass pierced my naked backside, but suddenly everything went weird.
I was covered in bubbles, but they started moving, coming alive, radiant with mesmerizing colors. Kaleidoscopes of pink and teal, baby blue and lavender. Prisms of pastel light illuminated the bathroom in sparkles you’ve never imagined.
Afire I was, Malbec within, and prickles of it without. The wine bit my punctured skin, and the bubbles met blood. I screeched, trying to keep the bubbles out of my wounds, swiping at my pale flesh, fighting back against nonsense, but that only made the soapy villain more determined, and next thing I knew, I was draped in a garment of glowing prismatic lather. I looked in the mirror.
My wavy red hair was resplendent, and my creamy complexion shone. The rest of me? Clad in a warrior’s garments made of lavender-scented foam.
“I’m a fucking foaming-hand-soap princess,” I moaned. What kind of nightmare birthday was this?
Then suddenly, bright blue text scrolled before my eyes. I waved my hands in front of my face, trying to push it away.
Name: Muriel McIntyre
Age: 29
Role: Fucking Foaming Hand Soap Princess
“Noooo!” I screeched.
Yuuuussssss!
The blue text scrolling across my vision enraged me. Sassy? I had a sassy system message interface? The fuck? Hells no!
“You will not!” I yelled defiantly.
Do you wish to live?
“Do you?!” I demanded back.
Well played, Muriel. Would you like access to your Skills?
“Fuck that! Convos with interfaces are boring AF! Skill me and forget the dialogue!”
I heard screeches and slamming, crashing dinnerware, and “Oh fucking hell” curses coming from the kitchen. I reached for a towel but noticed neither I nor the floor were wet, so I careened down the hallway toward the kitchen, unprepared for what I saw next.
