He doesn’t want one extra second balancing her over the slick tub. He doesn’t need one extra second of her getting a chill or one extra second of her pressing up against him, one extra second of this deep-rooted nauseating awareness of his sexuality.

So he lowers her and her weight is dropped dead weight in his arms and he tries to keep his back straight and bend with his knees but he feels her robe open and the soft flesh of her breast press up against his chest and he looks straight up and ahead over her shoulder because he got a peek and that’s enough for him and she couldn’t be a more modest woman this woman he’s known to hide her newest set of plates when the neighbors came over because she didn’t want them to feel she was showing off or to appear as if gloating over her new plate set so he knows she’s no more happy about this situation than he is.

His feet slip. His shoes leave rubber sole track patterns in the sweat of the tiles. He lowers her. She grunts, ‘oh sweetie.’

‘C’mon Nana.’

‘Oh’

‘C’mon’

She dunks two fingertips up to the first knuckles and recoils upward.

‘That’s good honey, that’s good.’

It’s a relief to pick her up. She stands before him and straightens herself up, pulling her robe closed.

‘I can take it a wee bit hotter.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Turn it up a little bit.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Okay.’ He creaks the hot water faucet open a smidge more.

‘I’m gonna sit down on the toilet there honey.’

‘Okay.’

‘Rest my feet a minute.’

‘Yep.’

He pulls her against him again, throwing her arm over his shoulder. Lowering her is easier this time. He’ll plunk her down into place in one motion. She can slip at any moment. He can drop her. Everything is slick and sweat. Her eyes pop from tired animality. He scoots her into place. Her flour white curls are so thin. He’d never before noticed the swatches of peach baldness from which her curls twist up into each other.

He leans back against the sink alongside her, better than hovering above her.