Chiffon Saree on a Toronto Bathroom Floor in January

The tiles are warm beneath her. That is the first thing — the only warm surface in the whole townhouse, this floor, heated from somewhere underneath, steady and indifferent to everything that has happened in the last six weeks. She sat down on it an hour ago still in the saree, still in her earrings, coat dropped somewhere in the hallway, and she has not moved except to pull the wand from the drawer under the sink and set it beside her hip, not yet turned on.

The chiffon has pooled around her. Pale gold, her mother's choice, borrowed for the engagement party because her own clothes are still in boxes she hasn't opened. It weighs almost nothing — she can barely feel it on her arms — but the silk petticoat beneath sits cool and deliberate against the inside of her thighs, smooth where it presses flat, holding its shape even now.

She is looking at herself in the mirror above the sink. The angle from the floor gives her knees, the gathered fabric, her own face above it — still wearing the kajal she put on six hours ago for a party where everyone asked how she was doing in that particular careful voice. She watched her own face answer them. She is watching it now.

She does not know exactly when she decided to come home and do this. Somewhere between the highway and the Annex, the cold outside the cab window, the specific silence of a house that holds one person. The wand is still beside her hip. She is not yet touching it.

Her right hand rests on the outside of her knee. She is aware of it — the warmth of her own palm through the silk, the slight give of the fabric, the way her fingers have curved without her asking them to. Her left hand is flat on the tile, steadying her, feeling the heat come up through her palm. The floor does not care about the divorce. It is just warm. It keeps being warm.

She exhales, and the sound that comes out is longer than she put in — something unfolding in the quiet bathroom, in the silence of a house where there is no one to hear it. She does not take it back.

Her thighs shift. Just slightly. The petticoat pulls taut across the space between them, silk going smooth and resistant, and she feels that resistance the way you feel a door that hasn't been opened in a long time — the specific weight of it, the specific fact of it being there.

She picks up the wand.

She holds it. Does not turn it on yet. Her right hand is still curved around her knee, thumb pressed into the crease where her thigh begins, and she is still watching herself in the mirror — the kajal, the gold fabric, the woman sitting on the only warm floor in a cold house in January, finally, finally about to remember what she is made of.