In the small bathroom that Mr. Garcia had insisted on installing for his daughters, Tessa lowered the plug over the hole and turned the taps. The water washed into the day all the anticipated noise of the house. It bounced off the hard white surfaces until it formed a pool that grew until it was a deep lake into which a tumble of scented colours cascaded. Blues and mauves, purples and creams, pinks and whites and reds ranging from velvet to vermilion. Tessa sank her long fingers into the flower filled depths. The petals stroked her lowered hands under the water and the flower heads jostled against her wrists. She bowed over until her nose broke the surface and she smiled, the rosy light reflected in her cheeks. She inhaled. In that inward breath she sensed the fields where the flowers grew in unleashed sweeps of scent. She flew with the bees, entering opaque boudoirs to douse herself in pollen and emerge saturated in honey thick powder. She tilted her face to the warm sunshine and wriggled her fingers in flight as the colours began to merge.
‘What are you doing?’ Mariquita shadowed the doorway.
Tessa turned, her arms prisoners to the flower wardens. She smiled with pleasure.
‘Buenos dias, Mariquita.’.
