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by Jonathan Hill
Originally published by on 22/03/2014

My view’s clouded by steam and condensation. He bends briefly, the arch of his back clearing a porthole as he brushes the glass. Droplets of water cling to his skin as if they too want a piece of this bronzed, blonde beauty. He’s soaping and rubbing every inch of his skin. Lingering on the usual part. Typical. My viewing window is now almost covered again. I wonder, if he were to turn, would he see my shape through the translucency? And would he see the long blade in my hand? Nobody cheats on me and gets away with it. Nobody.

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