Moon bath

Tonight will glow like a bar of soap: full moon.
Twenty seven days, eight hours and six seconds had passed since Bibo
had last washed. In that time he had been strictly avoiding anything
that might have made him less filthy. He'd carefully do-ci-do out of
the sprinkler's path, he'd ducked beneath the gazebo to avoid rain
showers, he'd not touched his hot flannel in Siam Bangkok.
Bibo checked his fingers; each nail had a rind of bacteria.
The croquet lawn was lunar flood lit. Bibo stepped out and felt the
grease from his hair evaporate. As he walked across the lawn, dead skin
fell off him, leaving a trail that glowed in the moonlight. His step
grew lighter; the well-maintained grass silked the callouses from his
heels.
He glistened, dripping. He smelt the freshness of his skin, the
smoothness of his clean shoulders, they could have been stones,
sieve-washed by the tide.