She said she loved getting home before I was done with my shower because that was the only time she got to hear me sing. Said my voice filled the bathroom, overflowed into our bedroom, where she could feel the air vibrating with my sorrow or happiness.
When she first told me this, I imagined her solid body resting on my side of the bed, blue buttoned-down work shirt exposing her white undershirt, feet crossed at the ankles, fingers laced behind her head as she stared at the ceiling. I came out and found her like that for real once; eyes closed, face blissful. When she said she loved my singing and began waiting for me on our bed, I began coming out in my towel instead of dressed, getting a rise out of how her beautiful green eyes would follow me through the room.
“What are you looking at?” I’d throw over my shoulder as I re-pinned the loose strands of hair that managed to get away.
“Something awful pretty.” She’d grin at my back from her position on the bed.