Tonight I drew myself a bath. Surrounded by bubbles and steam I thought about that kettle, the one I thought was worn through. I thought about that woman on the edge, afraid, still wanting, needing, to take that last step and fly. I thought about Jenny, crying alone in her bed while John retreated to his castle promising to one day explain. I want to tell Jenny that it doesn’t matter why or when or how. It doesn’t matter now. Those paths you and John crossed over and over have now diverged, and whether they cross again is out of your control. Will he be your friend? Maybe, one day. But should he be? I can’t really say. That girl on the edge might just need one more push. Go ahead and give her a nudge; she’s got a strong safety net. And that kettle? It just needed a little polish and water from a different source. Just fill it up and turn up the flame. So I finished my bath, shook off the bubbles and let the water drain. I took a look in the mirror and bid farewell to Jen, hoping I was the one about to take that last step.