Bathing with the Beatles

Lately The Beatles have sung to me. Everywhere I go, I hear them. This might not come as a shock to you, dear reader, but it has been a long time since this has happened. I’m taking it as a good omen.  Here are the songs that I’ve been feeling the most.

“I’ve Just Seen a Face” (from Help!)

“Got To Get You Into My Life” (from Revolver)

“Tell Me What You See” (from Help!)

“I Shoulda Known Better” (from Hard Day’s Night)

I took an amazing bath tonight. Well, first I took a shower and it dissolved into a bath. Once the hot water hit me, I just had to soak in it. My bathroom has an amazing tub. I sunk in. Only my open mouth, my breasts and the tips of my knees broke the surface. The rest of me was submerged, my ears clogged with water as the dark gurgles of the pipes below the floors sang me whale lullabies. My hair, clean for the first time in a week, hung like mist around my head, lapping with the water that stirred with my breath. It felt good to let go.

I booked that internship that I wanted in Santa Barbara. The guy in charge of the company is a West Virginian who must have longed his whole life to live in California, as foretold by his stylish stubble, gray polo casually covered by a sports coat and his blond-highlighted, always-damp-looking hair. I was afraid of him at first. He reeked of Los Angeles. But then I spoke to him and I realized that his looks were not only deceiving, but not so bad after all. His eyes saved him from looking like a prig. Something about honest, blue eyes that get me. His teeth were white, but they were not perfectly straight and he was unafraid to grin. The first thing he asked me was “What is a ‘shero’?” At first I had no idea what he was talking about; I thought he was testing my knowledge of the publishing industry with some freak term that I didn’t know. He laughed and pointed to my resume. I had completely forgotten that I had written that. That I liked reading books about “sheroes” (a phrase coined by one of my favorite authors). I scrambled to defend myself, worried he might think me a silly girl, but if he did, he decided me fit for the job anyway. When I tried to excuse the absurd amount of Jewish jobs I’ve had, he grinned again and shrugged. “It’s alright! You should be proud of your heritage. I have none. I’m a mutt.” Then he said that his goal for my internship was to fill it with so much relevant work that I would no longer need what I’d written anyway. I like the sound of that. Sheroes and Jewish Studies might have gotten me through this door, but silly girls can only get so far.

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