As he lies on their bed, he wonders why he is not in the shower with her.

She has been in there for a good five minutes and the steam is creeping into their darkened room. It approaches him carefully, like an alluring fog.

They find it useful to have extra, helping-hands in the shower, which is one of the main reasons they shower together. She argues that they are saving water, but he’s decided that they spend more time in there together than separately, considering their “activities.”

He feels puzzled as he wonders why he isn’t in there, slick and soapy with her. Their evening was peaceful and full of laughter, as usual. Nothing had gone wrong.

Maybe she just wanted alone time, he tells himself, unable to come up with a better motive.

He erases that idea quickly, because the last time she said that was about two weeks ago, when they had decided to reach their peaks by their own means (“C’mon. It’s sexy,” she purred that night).

It’s probably my fault. I should have just gone in with her.

Then he realizes that maybe he’s being a little bit ridiculous, maybe he should stop fussing about it. Showering by oneself is a normal occurrence.

Just maybe not for them.

He stands, straightens his t-shirt subconsciously, and tip-toes to their master-bathroom. He is immediately greeted by a wave of heat and a citrus-lilac aroma as he silently enters her steaming sanctuary.

The mirror is coated in a thin layer of condensation and he no longer feels guilty for not showering with her. He could have some fun with mirrors such as these.

He thinks about writing something sexy, maybe even provocative.

Another night, he thinks, grinning.

He touches his finger to the damp glass and draws in a little message enclosed in a heart:

Jim loves Pam.