thirty seconds

Thirty seconds staring at a spider suspended above the private onsen bath. It’s white and nearly imperceptible. I thought it was dirt caught in a cobweb. It didn’t descend, only drifted with the air current.

Thirty seconds of the seven spouts dripping from the cement bath faucet. It’s discolored, corroded. I don’t want to touch it. The wooden panel housing it is discolored, too. But it’s prettier. The design looks intentional.

Thirty seconds of a cold drip of condensation dripping from the ceiling and trailing down my back. I’m sitting on the edge of the bath, only my legs are in the water. The initial contact is jarring. It’s taking all of my willpower not to react immediately and wipe it off. I probably couldn’t reach it anyway.