Vapors

Dawn Schout

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I stay in a hot tub until my heart
races, face sweaty, body steaming,
chlorine scenting my hair.
I’m sandwiched between men,
brush arms and feet with them sometimes,
then move away
because it’s expected,
not because it’s what I want,
in the shadows, facing away
from the porch light.
Cool raindrops leave the tree
above us and fall on my head,
so heavy with their nothingness.
Tonight I welcome them, invite them.
Every one that touches me
surprises me.
I ease halfway out the water.
Don’t shower when I get home.
For a while, I keep the men
with me, the water we shared,
chlorine-scented hair
a reminder, part of me still
in that tub,
bubbled into vapors.