She was about to submerge herself beneath the bubbles when her phone pinged. She always kept it beside her on the bath rim because it made her feel more secure, knowing she could make a call if someone broke into her hell pit of an apartment. It had taken her the best part of a year to learn to sleep through the sound of slamming doors, crying babies. She wasn’t going to gripe about it though. There were plenty of people with less than her.
It was great to meet you too.
She read the message several times, not that it was challenging or begged another look. It was clear enough. But still, she read it over, looking at the letters, how there were two e’s in a row, followed by two o’s, and how pleasing that was to the eye.
But it wasn’t just the letters. It was the sentiment. It was great to meet her. Not lovely, the polite word. Not amazing, the fake. But great. A direct repetition of what she’d said first. It couldn’t be more perfect. It was exactly the response she had been hoping for.
Holding the phone above the bubbles, she licked her lower lip, feeling the way it bobbled and dipped, as though there were tiny shapes under the skin, peas in a pod. She liked her lips more than any other part of her—the way they drew attention more than anything else, now that it wasn’t as socially acceptable to stare at her chest.
She read the message again, placing her phone on the floor beside the bath. It wasn’t on charge, but she never took any chances where her personal safety was concerned.
It was a dangerous world. She never left home without a blade. It wasn’t legal, but no one ever heard the police praising a woman for her law-abiding ways after her corpse was found at the end of an alley.
Cupping her breasts in her hands, she slipped underwater, holding her breath before surfacing again, watching her nipples pop. She never tired of admiring herself—appreciated her immense efforts.
She trained hard, harder than anyone else. Maybe there were others out there like her, but she hadn’t met them yet. She was always first into the gym, didn’t stop until she’d worked out for an hour and a half. Mat work: dead bugs, shoulder taps, bird dogs, Russian twists, rocking planks… And then treadmill, rowing, weights. They called her psycho behind her back, but they could have said it to her face because she wouldn’t have minded. She liked it.
Sitting up, she reached for her towel, gently nuzzling her face into it. She’d learned from a young age to respect herself—that you taught people within five minutes of meeting them how you wanted to be treated. And what they got from her was do not touch.
She knew they wondered what her secret was—cosmetic surgery, more money than sense, vile personality, that kind of thing, not that anyone would ever ask her. They were too busy judging, ogling, shooting daggers—you name it, they did it. But if they were to ever come over and have a polite conversation with her, she would say, Well, thank you for asking, madam or sir, and the answer to your question is self-love.
It was easier when you looked like her, for sure. But she liked to think that she’d have worshipped herself even if she hadn’t been physically flawless.
Toweling herself off, dabbing moisturizer on her thighs, she stared at herself in the cabinet glass, drawing closer to look at the tiny freckles on her nose. They came every summer, left by Christmas Day.
Her necklace had swiveled round, the chain almost a choker at her neck. Pulling it straight, the pendant swung into place, landing just above her breasts.
She had almost messed up. It was so unlike like her to be careless that she wondered if maybe she’d done it deliberately, giving the subtlest of clues. She thought she had been caught out, held her breath. But then the moment passed and she knew she’d got away with it.
Next time, she would be more careful. She hadn’t come this far to make one stupid mistake.
Going through to the bedroom, she crouched on the floor, pulling a shoebox from underneath a dresser. Wrapping her necklace in tissue paper, she hid it inside the box, sliding it away before returning to the bathroom to clean her teeth, gazing at her bare chest. It didn’t look right. She would have to get something else to go there. A pendant with the initial E this time.
In the cramped living room, she picked up the old hardback she’d lifted from the bar last night and took it to the bedroom, where she flicked on a lamp without a shade and began to read.
The trap was set. Now all she had to do was wait.