She lathers her hair with shampoo. It’s scented ‘Love Stories,’ but she loves the smell of bergamot and roses that rises in the steam. She settles into the warmth.

Everyday Lydia and Phrygia play Shower Thoughts in the bathtub. Today, it went something like this:

Welcome back to Shower Thoughts. Today Lydia Blue and Phrygia Violet compete to come up with the most pointlessly profound idea. Welcome Lydia Blue. Welcome Phrygia Violet. 

When it’s cloudy, the sun doesn’t go away. It just shines on the rain clouds. 

This is so stupid and nobody actually cares. 

…

Ever think about how childish this is? Listen to us—

What? This isn’t how the game is played. 

Why are we still pretending this stupid thing is fun? It’s just, it’s just

…

Stupid. 

What? We promised to play everyday, forever and ever, even when we grew up.

That doesn’t count. 

Remember the pinkie promise? We pinkie promised. 

This is the problem. We need to move on. We’re always stuck in the past, at least two steps behind everyone else. We promised because we were little kids. We didn’t know today from tomorrow. 

Shut up.

Oh, now we’re crying? This is literally the problem. Remember when we spoiled the ending of that book to Genny and she stopped talking to us, not that she was a good friend anyway, but we couldn’t figure out why so we cried to her mom and made those yucky cupcakes and she just laughed—

Shut up, shut up. 

Notice how we’re never quite enough? It’s because of this dumb game. We’re just immature crybabies, cliche as it sounds, feeding off of dead dreams like vultures that peaked in kindergarten. 

SHUT UP. 

Remember when we wrote a collection of our shower thoughts into a poem, if we can even call it that. Let’s go back and read that. Wasn’t it so dumb?

SHUT UP. I hate you. I HATE YOU. You’re so dumb. 

…

Stop it. Stop it please. 

I’m sorry. It’s not dumb.

I’m sorry too. You’re not dumb.

The sun’s still shining above the clouds?

Yeah. I guess they are. 

Thank you for tuning into tonight’s Shower Thoughts with special guests Lydia Blue and Phrygia Violet. Say bye, Lydia Blue and Phrygia Violet. 

Everyday Lydia and Phrygia fight in the bathtub.

It was already dead, she tells herself, watching the limp, tangled strands of hair trap shampoo froth in the drain. Lydia Blue and Phrygia Violet wink at her where sunlight hits the soapy bubbles. She clutches their emptiness close to her chest and it fills her up like bergamot and roses. Like rolling the windows all the way down on the highway, choking on too much air. Like the foam fizzes up, defying gravity, after mixing pouring baking soda and vinegar. Free.

Perhaps the greatest love story is loving yourself.