The bath is drawn. The bottle is open. Beyond my windows, the city has settled into that particular quiet that only arrives on Christmas Eve – when the last-minute chaos finally exhausts itself and the streets empty and the whole world seems to pause, just for a moment, before tomorrow begins.
I have been moving slowly all evening. There is no rush. The day folded itself away hours ago, and what remains is mine entirely – time measured only in how long the water stays hot and how slowly I choose to pour.
The whisky is Scottish, old, expensive in the way that doesn’t announce itself but simply exists as fact. I brought the bottle with me, along with a crystal tumbler that catches the candlelight when I lift it, and I have positioned both within easy reach of the bath. The scent of it – caramel and spiced vanilla, warm and rich and faintly sweet – mixes with the steam rising from the water, and the room feels dense with heat and indulgence and the particular luxury of having nowhere else to be.
Through the window, I can see the faint glow of lights strung across neighbouring buildings, gold and white against the winter darkness. Someone’s tree blinks softly in a window across the way. The scene outside feels distant, muffled, like watching snow fall through glass – beautiful, but entirely separate from where I am. They are in their world. I am in mine.
I slipped in slowly, letting the water rise around me, letting the heat settle deep into my skin. My hair is pinned loosely, a few dark strands escaping to curl against my neck and shoulders where the steam touches them. There are candles arranged along the edge of the tub, their flames steady and golden, reflecting in the dark surface of the water. Somewhere in the other room, something seasonal plays quietly – not carols, nothing sentimental, just something atmospheric enough to acknowledge the evening without demanding anything from it.
Everything feels suspended. Slow. Utterly, perfectly mine.
This is what Christmas Eve is for. Not the frenzy. Not the obligations. Not the performance of preparation or the machinery of last-minute arrangements or the exhausting theatre of making everything perfect for tomorrow. Those tasks are complete. The gifts are wrapped. The plans are made. What remains is this: one private evening, one quiet hour, one moment that belongs to no one but me before tomorrow arrives with its warmth and noise and all the small rituals I will gladly participate in – but not yet.
I have no intention of checking my phone. No interest in messages or notifications or the small desperate attempts at connection that inevitably arrive on evenings like this. The world can wait. The Fund can wait. Everything external to this moment can simply continue without my attention, because tonight I am unreachable, untouchable, and utterly disinterested in anything that does not serve my immediate comfort.
The whisky burns beautifully. I sip it slowly, feeling the warmth spread through my chest, and I let my eyes close. The water laps gently against the sides of the tub. The candles flicker. Outside, the city glows softly with Christmas lights.
This is luxury. Not the kind that requires an audience or acknowledgment. Not the kind that needs to be photographed or shared or validated. Just the private, perfect indulgence of a woman who knows exactly what she wants and takes it without hesitation, without apology, without a single thought for anyone else.
Tomorrow is Christmas Day. There will be family. Conversation. Laughter. The comfortable chaos of people I love gathered in warm rooms, the rituals we observe together year after year. I will be present for all of it, entirely myself, engaged and unhurried.
But tonight – this last quiet evening before it all begins – belongs entirely to me.
And I intend to savour every moment of it.