Sighing blissfully, I push past the curtain into the tiled area and stop with one hand still clinging to the fabric. I can hear the sound of a door opening and closing as the toothbrush boy leaves the room, and then nothing. The walls on the changing stall and shower are a good twelve feet high, but there's no ceiling per se. I double, triple, and quadruple check to make sure the door is locked behind me, hang the tiny key on the hook nearby, and get naked.
Like, who comes into the shower to read and eat apples? There's a satin chaise lounge with a frilly pillow, an oil painting on the wall that I'm pretty sure is not a reproduction, and a small bookshelf stocked with classic novels and topped with a tea and coffee station, plus a bowl of fresh fruit.
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