Friday, February 18
Steam
Jon buys Vic a valentine’s gift. They have between them a rule that presents on this day must be of a “small but intimate” nature. He doesn’t follow this rule to its very letter when he gives her a credit card shaped certificate for a luxury spa. His man’s handwriting across the envelope reads “because you deserve some time to think.”
steam n 1. The vapour phase of water. 2. Power; energy.
Vic calls the spa immediately to set an appointment, selecting a two hour long massage. The cheery receptionist at the spa informs her that their relaxing “water therapies” are complimentary with her services so she should bring her swimsuit and plan to arrive an hour early.
On the day of her appointment, Vic arrives at the spa and is shown to the women’s changeroom where she is given a luxurious bathrobe (has anything ever felt so good as a expensive white terry robe?), a locker and a towel. She undresses, hangs her clothes neatly on the hooks and slips her bikini on with minimal shyness considering the audience of at least 10 other women. She holds her body less privately now that she’s had a child. Oddly, she is also more body-confident now than in younger years, aware as she is of the contrast between her pregnant and non-pregnant self.
She slips into the spa flipflops and opens the door marked “Water Therapies”.
Immediately, she is reminded of the women’s bathhouses she used to visit when she was single. Large expanses of Romanesque tile, white walls, deep aqua pools of water, some churning with heat, others cool and still. In those bathhouses, every chair, every pool was dotted with women in various stages of a sexual game. Those were different days.
She sighs inwardly at the memories of a girl who feels like 45 selves ago and hangs her robe outside the steamroom door.
The glass door is opaque with steam and when she opens it, a whoosh of humid air washes over her face. Vic has always loved the feel of wet air. The way it licks your skin, clings and drips, makes you languorous and aware.
Inside the steamroom it is nearly dark. Lit only by a few potlights near the floor, her eyes take a moment to adjust. She finds the tiled benches, hops up onto one and relaxes her back against the hot, wet wall. Breathes.
She looks through the steam and realizes that one of the walls in the room is also glass. Like the door, it is steamed and dripping. Faint shapes move beyond it, illuminated slightly by the floor lights. Two women are on the other side in what must be another steam room. Vic can hear their muffled conversation and feels the distinct thrill of being private in a public space.
It surprises her 30 year old, “I’m a mother now and thoughts like these are not appropriate” self to find this idea lingering around in her mind, dashing behind synapses, peeping sneakily around her cortex:
“If there were another woman in here, would I be able to stop myself from flirting with her? If I flirted with her, would she sense the same dark privacy and flirt back? Would I sit with her in the farthest corner and would I let my fingers linger over her leg? Would I kiss her? Would I kneel down in this steam, part her knees with my tongue and summon my more devilish self, hoping like hell that nobody came in?”
The glass door whooshes open and another woman enters. Vic blushes (thank god it’s so dark) and rushes out past her, saying “That’s enough steam for me,” as she goes.
posted by Vic |
2/18/2005 01:50:00 PM |
2 comments
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