Suit pants and polished shoes thrown in the trash by hands too soft for hard play in the rat race and now off track she sits with her fingers folded, ragged nails hidden, and hums a song she heard twenty years ago in the back seat of a green Chevette when his hair was long and in her face, tickling her cheeks, the softest skin, he said with a slick tongue before they traded it all in for three bedrooms, a den, and a master bath with spa jets and candles reflected on wet knees, fingers digging in flesh, tight like the bun let out of her hair, its ends dipping in the water, barely breaking the surface, steamy breath pushing it away from her face and she winced at his sharp smile, paycheck in the bank, ring-eyed from running too fast, and she knew it was time to stop her hand and find her way back home.