Samuel instinctively grabbed on to Don Juan's other arm when he fell over into the bath. "Don't drown yourself—dying twice a night is once too much," he chided him, but he did not turn off the water. Don Juan started laughing, and it was the sound of his barely suppressed laughter, after all that happened this night, that broke something in him he thought could not break.
It was the most painful release, like something split him down his sternum. With burning eyes, he looked away. Flickers of carefree memories seemed to drift by underneath the steam fogging up the mirror. How many times had he stood in the bathroom with him and listened to his laughter? Kazimir, starved working-class boy that he was, suddenly developed hilarious opulence when he wanted to take a bath. He lay down in the water with a chair nearby that he draped in towels and the bathrobe Sam gifted him. He smoked cigarettes and drank whisky and read books and poetry and wanted his hair washed and his shoulders massaged until they were soft and supple. He wanted to be brought food, and he threw the soaked lavender flowers he put in his bathwater at Samuel while he stood at the mirror and tried to shave, and he laughed about his exasperation. Of course, Sam always got him everything he wanted.
Gone, Samuel thought and looked at the bloodied water flowing around their feet. Washed away, nearly fifteen years ago. Suddenly everything ceased to matter. There was no use in holding on to it. He smiled with relief and looked at Don Juan and invested him for the first time with warmth that belonged to him.
"Go ahead," he said to him. "Free me. Or I'm not going to get there tonight." He turned towards him and took his hands away to give him access. His gaze wandered over his face, then drifted towards the flowing tap. He did not care anymore that the carpet in the hallway would grow mold. The wooden floors would bend, and the water would swell to a river down the stairs. If all of this was swept away by the morning, Samuel would be glad.
It was the most painful release, like something split him down his sternum. With burning eyes, he looked away. Flickers of carefree memories seemed to drift by underneath the steam fogging up the mirror. How many times had he stood in the bathroom with him and listened to his laughter? Kazimir, starved working-class boy that he was, suddenly developed hilarious opulence when he wanted to take a bath. He lay down in the water with a chair nearby that he draped in towels and the bathrobe Sam gifted him. He smoked cigarettes and drank whisky and read books and poetry and wanted his hair washed and his shoulders massaged until they were soft and supple. He wanted to be brought food, and he threw the soaked lavender flowers he put in his bathwater at Samuel while he stood at the mirror and tried to shave, and he laughed about his exasperation. Of course, Sam always got him everything he wanted.
Gone, Samuel thought and looked at the bloodied water flowing around their feet. Washed away, nearly fifteen years ago. Suddenly everything ceased to matter. There was no use in holding on to it. He smiled with relief and looked at Don Juan and invested him for the first time with warmth that belonged to him.
"Go ahead," he said to him. "Free me. Or I'm not going to get there tonight." He turned towards him and took his hands away to give him access. His gaze wandered over his face, then drifted towards the flowing tap. He did not care anymore that the carpet in the hallway would grow mold. The wooden floors would bend, and the water would swell to a river down the stairs. If all of this was swept away by the morning, Samuel would be glad.
