Bathtub by Mike Allen: third in The Moth short story prize 2026

He was in the kitchen preparing lentils. The skins of these lentils were a mottled grey with green and brownish flecks. The kitchen after the rain was still and bright. A reddish sun slanted across the rain-soaked garden. Smells of cooking drifted through the house.

He lifted the colander into the sink. Washed under cold water, the lentils took on the dark gloss of caviar. He tipped them into a pot of steaming water and set them to simmer.

She said something. It was possible she hadn’t meant for him to hear it, but only to hear that something had been said and that it wasn’t for him to hear.

He moved to the partially open window and resumed looking out. The rain had brought its own smells, he couldn’t say quite what. The world was quiet and glassy and unreally clean. The soaked bedsheets on the line moved in the stillness like a curtain.

He finished his wine and rinsed the glass and set it aside on the draining board. He dried his hands. He wiped the surfaces. Then he changed his mind and poured himself another glass.

The bathroom door was ajar. He stood in the doorway with the glass in his hand. She lay in the tub with her knees raised. A damp flannel lay between her breasts. He looked at her in the late-afternoon light. Her face was shiny and flushed at the cheeks. Her hair was dark with water.

It’s going to rain again, she said quietly.

Oh?

The light off the bathwater made her legs waver slightly.

Funny, she said, the things that stay with you. Little things. Did you bring in the bedsheets?

I’ll get them in a minute, he said. She twisted her mouth. He took a slow sip of wine.

I saw the new neighbour the other day, from the window. It was funny, she was taking out the bins or something, and she turned and stopped. She just stood there in the middle of the lawn. Like she was hearing, I don’t know, birdsong.

Well, she had this look on her face. I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s like when you catch someone in a private moment and they’re just so – so completely themselves. Because I think you rarely see that. I think most of the time people are sort of elsewhere. There and not there. Like they’re on automatic or something.

It’s a small thing, I know. But I sometimes feel that – that I’m just floating by, seeing it all from a little distance. It’s just that you’re not quite in it anymore, I think, that’s the trouble.

He looked into his glass. Yes.

She touched her fingers to her lips.

It’s funny, she said, how we do that. With everything. Fold it up. Tuck it all into these little drawers and cupboards. I mean it’s admirable, up to a point. Because what else do you do? Put it away and the problem is you forget, remember and the problem is you can’t put it away.

She let her hand sink back into the water.

I don’t know. It just struck me, that’s all.

Hmm, he said. Do you want a glass?

Like a bunch of receipts or something.

He raised his glass and jiggled it.

No thanks, she said, and slid a little lower in the tub. He went back to the kitchen. The lentils were dancing in the pot. He lifted the lid and turned down the heat.

He stood at the window looking at nothing. Steam rose and clouded the glass. He heard the bathwater stir. He turned his head.

People surprise you. Or you surprise yourself. Well, not really. But it’s interesting. How sometimes it catches you by accident. Funny, it just came to me now.

He waited for her to say more. She had a way of holding several things in her mind. He set down his glass.

It was at this dinner party, at Annemarie’s house, or Brigitte’s, I forget which. It was long and tedious, the kind of thing that goes on and on and no one quite knows how to leave. There was some kind of fish thing that had gone cold and nobody wanted to finish.

He came back to the doorway and leaned his head against the frame. Her neck and shoulders were rosy above the water. She shook her head. Then gave a little laugh, showing her teeth.

Well, there was a woman – David’s wife, you remember David. Funny woman. Sat very straight. She was quiet mostly and not really listening. But she kept straightening her cutlery. Just very quietly, lining it up.

Not quite there? He came in, glass in hand, and went over to the toilet. He lifted his foot and tipped the seat down. Then he sat.

Exactly. Okay, so we’re talking about work or whatever. And John’s gone off on one of his things and Annemarie’s just sort of nodding along. Annemarie’s so kind. And I’m just sitting there drinking my drink.

He leaned forwards with his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor between his feet.

Only Brigitte doesn’t want to sit through it again, you can tell. She keeps trying to change the subject. And nobody’s picking it up.

Poor Brigitte, he said. He drained his glass, leaned back against the cistern and undid his waistband. She touched the pink curve of her ear.

And John of course carries on oblivious. That’s just John. He tunes things out. But then so does everybody. We hear what we want to hear. Everybody does, don’t you think?

She turned to look at him. The dark tint of her eyes. The uptilted chin. She was looking not into his eyes but around them, at his hairline or his ears.

More or less, he said.

More or less – okay. But it adds up, I think. Over the years. And nothing reaches you anymore.

He turned the glass on his knee. Don’t let the water get cold, he said. He rose and carried the glass to the doorway.

She sat up a little, looking at the water. He stood there, glass in hand. Then she said, If you speak to me like that.

No, I know.

He stood in the doorway. He lifted the empty glass to his lips then lowered it again. It was an automatic gesture. She leaned slowly forwards, reaching for the plug. Instead, she turned on the hot tap and let it run.

In the kitchen he stood motionless for a while. Outside, the light was past its peak. The sheets on the line caught and lifted in the breeze. The lentils had softened and swelled to a mushy soup in the pot, the skins loose and floating.

He turned off the heat. The noise of the running tap had stopped. He was a bit hot, his mouth was dry. The evening was arriving. The glass was in his hand. But where was the bottle? He did up his waistband.

So anyway, she said. John’s still going, no sign of stopping. And Brigitte’s just sort of sitting there. She’s surrendered, basically. Gives me this look. Then Annemarie, bless her, starts clearing the plates. She knocks over Brigitte’s glass, just as she’s topping it up. Nothing drastic, just a bit of wine. But it’s a nice tablecloth. And Annemarie’s all flustered. So there’s this pause, you know, as the napkins come out and we’re all sort of dabbing at it, waiting for John to continue.

He opened the fridge and refilled his glass with wine. Then he took another glass from the cupboard and filled it with what was left in the bottle. Stood together on the countertop, the filled glasses suggested a bright, pure, joyous life. He picked up the glasses, one in each hand, and carried them through to the bathroom.

She soaked and squeezed and ran the flannel along her freckled arm. She said, so that was a bit of a relief. And I’m thinking about how to make my excuses and slip away.

He stepped into the room with the glasses. He set one on the tiled floor, within her reach. He wasn’t sure what to do with the other. He got himself down beside the tub. He put one hand flat on the floor. The glass went on his knee.

Well, at that point David’s wife sits back and looks at us. She takes a little breath. And she starts telling this story. It’s a bit of an old story, she says, she’s told it often. It’s about a wedding, actually. And she’s taking her time, so we settle in. Because what else can you do?

She squeezed water over her knees, then ran the flannel along the inside of her raised thigh. He looked up at her, searching for something to say, then said nothing.

So she starts telling us this story. And it’s good – it’s funny. She’s at this wedding and she doesn’t really know anybody. They’ve spelled her place name wrong, naturally. And she gets seated next to this woman at the reception. This is in Europe, somewhere. France, Italy – I’m not sure exactly.

He shifted a little on the hard floor. She lay back in the tub and spread the flannel across her chest. Little ripples of light were reflected faintly on the ceiling.

And this woman is old, older, a distant aunt or something. Drinking water, not wine. Not really part of it all. And she’s been watching the wife all evening, it turns out, but anyway –

Her foot peeped out briefly near the tap, the pale slender arch and bright mushroom toes, and then was gone.

Anyway, David’s wife, she gets to this bit in her story. The older woman leans over and says something like, weddings are strange, aren’t they. And the wife sort of laughs, says something back. Some polite remark. And the woman watches her for a moment, not smiling. And then she says, you’re not in the right place, are you. Something like that. And the wife just looks at her. Sort of stunned. Because what a funny thing to say. And she’s smiling to herself, a little painfully, David’s wife, so we’re all waiting for her to tell us the funny bit. But that’s just it. She opens her mouth and nothing comes out. Her face goes blank and she just goes quiet. Just stops and tilts her head. Like she’s lost the thread.

It was just so funny, she said, frowning. She looked at David for a second. She sort of laughed, but not really. I keep thinking about it. I can see her face, quite clearly. Her hands were very still on the tablecloth.

And then?

She looked at her legs in the water. Her fingers touched the damp flannel on her chest. She was trying to get at something. She squinted a little. He was listening.

Then nothing, really. I thought it was a joke at first. That was the strange thing. But she wasn’t joking. She was taking in what she’d said. It was like she was hearing it for the first time.

Her hand rose to rest on the rim of the tub. He reached forwards and ran his fingertips lightly over the wet curve of her wrist.

She said, it’s not sadness, exactly. It’s flatter than that. Or thinner. Like a light left on in an empty room. She turned her face to the wall. I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to say really.

Her hand slipped back into the water. He set down his glass. The other glass was on the floor by his foot.

But it keeps coming back to me, she said. The way she looked at us. As if it wasn’t a question. And I just keep thinking about her hands. Her face.

Then she said, we should introduce ourselves. To the new neighbour. It looks nice, the house. I wonder if she’s happy there.

Her voice was lighter suddenly. The words came easily, surprising her. He looked up. She laughed a little. He laughed too.

How she rose from the tub. Not easily, but awkwardly, stooping slightly, careful not to slip. She gestured for the towel.

The lights of other houses appeared as bright daubs, yellow and white, through the frosted window above the sink.

She stepped into his arms and let him wrap the towel around her. He kissed her forehead very lightly and she pushed him gently away, and he put his hands on her hips and drew her closer and she pushed him gently away.

The evening spread across the sky. Then rainfall, the sound of rain again on a flat felt roof, gentle insistence of the solid world. He felt the warmth of her body through the towel. She looked at him softly from a considerable distance.

Mike Allen’s story Bathtub, which was originally commended by this year’s judge, Wendy Erskine, has been awarded third prize in The Moth Short Story Prize 2026 (while second and third prizewinners have been re-awarded first and second), after the withdrawal by Jeffrey-Michael Kane of his story, The Shoulder, due to a misunderstanding of the terms and conditions.

“Bathtub is a story that seems, initially, quotidian. And yet it’s anything but. Here we have the careful anatomy of a relationship; the mysteries of communication; worlds of closeness and distance. It’s a compelling and finely judged story.” Wendy Erskine, judge.

Mike Allen is from the UK but is based in Valencia, Spain. He has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia and a BA from the Slade School of Fine Art. He was a 2023 Fellow at the Sozopol Fiction Seminars in Bulgaria and his work has won the Seán O’Faoláin International Short Story Prize and an Escalator Prize from the National Centre for Writing. He is working on a novella.