On lifting the shoebox lid, my bath bombs explode the air with scent. When I tip them in, the whole box’s worth, the chalky spheres bob in the water, harmless and bland. Fizzing slightly. Then they metamorphose. Pastel and neon and iridescent foam roars out their sides. They have names, somewhere. Intergalactic. Melusine. Sex Bomb. Twilight. Incredulously I laugh and laugh and laugh into the silence of the tiled room, beyond thought or language, ducking my head under the iridescent froth, only coming up, every part of me wild with glitter and color, once I can no longer breathe.
