I was enjoying a lovely hot, steamy shower when I heard an unusual noise, like a tick and a phew. Strange, I thought. Looking through the hard water-stained shower door, I blinked to see an orange flicker across the room.
Was it? It couldn’t be! But, what if …? Aaack. I’m naked as a jay bird and dripping wet. What if I get electrocuted? What if I slip and can’t get up? Will my husband be the one to find me, or …? Shudder. Forbid the thought. One of my teenage sons?!?
The orange flicker grows. No time to think, I open the shower door a crack to confirm the worst: the plug connected to the electric heater burns brightly, flame licking the wall, night light, and medicine cabinet above.
Hoping for some kind of cosmic immunity, I jump out of the warm drizzle, pluck my way to the offending blaze, grab the insulated cord from a foot-long distance away, and jerk it promptly. Outlet and prongs still burn happily.
Two hard long breaths quiet the dance on the wall, while one long wind kills the remaining burning rubber on the plug, and I drop it to a vinyl floor to cool. Confirmed, it’s dead enough.
Satisfied, I resume my shower, punctuated by the odor of burnt rubber, plastic and smoke-mingled steam. Strange, the things a mother will do to protect her only solitude!
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