The Bathtub Soup

I was lying in my bathtub, lost in thought. But this time, it was different.
It was an experiment.

Coffee's gone cold. I flicked ash into the chipped saucer balanced on the tub's edge. Steam curled from the murky broth around my waist—chicken bones, ginger slices, and overcooked noodles bobbing against my stomach. "Should've brought a thermos?"


The tea lights beneath the cast-iron bathtub pulsed like tiny orange hearts, casting flickering shadows on the tiled walls. Despite the draught from the hallway, sweat dripped from my temples. My toes brushed against something solid—perhaps a carrot—as I moved around in the hot liquid. Every pore tingled, the blood rushing hot beneath my skin.