Guest bathroom

I was afraid to touch anything in the guest house bathroom. The towel, not exactly feminine but a shade between rust and mauve, looked like it had been ironed or maybe never used to wipe dripping human skin and hair. The dark scrawly sink counter was perfectly dry but shone and reflected crisp images of my unkempt head and sagging chest. There was new toothpaste, new shampoo, sage soap still in white paper in a green box, a toothbrush in plastic. Three sets of switches lit recessed ceiling lamps, over the sink, over the shower, over the toilet, which had its own enclave, a small cave where one could relieve oneself without infiltrating the rest of the pure room; this toilet space had its own switch that softly sparked a quiet unseen fan to waft away the odors. A heavenly bathroom, that is, one I would only again find in heaven. I stripped self-consciously, looked around and stepped, crept through the glass door, into the shower. Not surprisingly, the stream of water was soft and strong like a mother's womb.