It’s not until she’s actually inside and the water is actually running from the showerhead that she realizes it; something amazing, something profound about something so simple, so petty, that to mention it to anyone else in casual conversation would be to risk getting labeled as a sort of crazy person.
“It’s… clean,” Cecile whispers to herself, starting at the walls. Three walls, one door, one floor, but no hair. No stands of forgotten who-knows-what anywhere to be seen inside the plastic mother-of-pearl walls. No brown scum on the floor created by dozens of feet and their dead skin and used soap piling, piling, piling on top of each other. She understood it in an instant, but marveled over it for minutes: it was her shower, and no one else’s. If it ever gets dirty, if it ever gets hairy, it will be her dirt, and her hair. And she is not afraid of her own hair.