The first thing he saw was the bed. No, his bed, Peter corrected himself. He hadn't been able to say that for close to fifteen years. This bed was quite normal, covered with a once-vibrant floral blanket that had since faded.
He turned around, said thank you to the shelter folks, and closed the door before they decided they had made a mistake. He exhaled, and leaned himself against the door. His door. His wall.
After setting down his bag and washing his hands — with soap! good, thick soap — Peter ran his hands lightly over the blanket, tracing one of the orange flowers in the right corner. The edges of the petals had lovely yellow detailing. Before he became homeless, back when his parents could still bear having him live with him, they always said that hotels were nasty places, full of bacteria and unmentionable fluids. But the blanket smelled clean, felt rough in the way often-washed blankets are. He pressed down into the bed, testing. It was firm enough, through the floral blanket.
His hands were clean but not the rest of his body. This hotel seemed particularly nice, or rather, it seemed to be the city's favourite spot for swingers. The blanket, although dull, looked like it was once grand, in a Vegas sort of way, and the bathroom had a sink sandwiched in between a bath and a shower. A bath! There were showers in the shelter, but no baths.
Peter itched. It felt like there were little electric patches, tiny ECG electrode patches he was awed at at his first psychotic episode in the hospital, all over the sides of his arms and down his legs.
He started the bath, muscle memory reminding him his favourite setting. He took his time taking off his clothes, folding them, placing them on the love seat. One foot in, two. He turned the HOT dial a quarter-circle, and swung his feet up and out of the bath.
Peter catalogued the amenities. Toothbrush, toothpaste, floss. A bathrobe on the hanger and matching slippers, which he grabbed.
The water was a good, soupy temperature now. He settled in, facing backwards from the faucet, and stretched his legs out. The water felt glorious, and lapped against nooks and crannies that he hadn't washed for a long time. Shelter showers were always a bit uncomfortably cold after a few minutes, so he always went for a rough, fast cleanse.
He stared at his right knee. Extended, it had wrinkles, grimy wrinkles. Slowly, he bent his knee and rubbed away at the wrinkles, and the brown lines dissolved instantly. As the water rose around him, the buzzing of the itching quieted and eventually silenced completely. Turning off the faucet, he dunked his head underwater. Peter took more time sudsing his hair, and spread the excess over his arms.
The water was starting to tint grey.
Damn. Alright. He'd just let the water out and refill the bathtub with fresh water.
Brushing his teeth and flossing made his gums bleed, but it was good pain, and he had enough water. His water. In his robe, he ambled to the lights, turning them off. And finally, finally, he sunk into his bed, and drew the covers up around him.
Tomorrow, he would clean his clothes in the sink, and go out and purchase some groceries to cook on the little stove. But for now, he was clean from his bath. He would sleep now, in his bed.
I felt so sad reading reports of homeless people finally, finally being housed in empty hotels due to COVID-19. To having a bed, and a bath.
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