Wet - Lauren Hawkeye

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      Wet

      Lauren Hawkeye

      image www.spice-books.co.uk

      Today is hot. Swelteringly hot, with the burning kind of air that makes me think of thick, sweet honey, gooey and good, trickling slowly from my fingers into my mouth. I’ve grown uncomfortable in this heat, but I can do nothing more about it here than I’ve already done. The window to my bedroom is propped open with one of my furry winter boots, and a rickety old electric fan that I picked up at a garage sale for a song blows lukewarm air at my face from where it sits, stuck to the tacky varnish on the glossy mahogany table that serves as my desk.

      I’ve been struggling in the heat for a week now, attempting to work on a thirty page paper, the topic of which is Ernest Becker and his theory of terror management. But the heat has warped my mind, and my thoughts are chugging along slowly, like a stream of molasses out of its little cardboard carton.

      I saw an advertisement on the wall yesterday, in the psychology building at the university. It offered, in bright colors on glossy paper, a student rate at a hot spring spa an hour and a half west of here. I don’t really have the money, but the heat is getting to me, and the idea of a break is so luscious, after almost twelve months straight of intensive university courses, that I can’t get the idea out of my mind. So as I sit at that little table in my dorm room, of which the quality and size have been improved only slightly now that I am in graduate school, I decide to just go for it. The breeze from the fan as it rustles my many papers is as listless as my energy level.

      It’s not like I’m getting a lot done here, at any rate.

      I pack a bag and, after a moment’s hesitation, leave my school books as they are, stacked high on the table. With a final look around at the sticky, stifling room—the beige room that represents my entire life at this point—I swing my knapsack over my shoulder and leave, shutting the creaky door firmly behind me.

      The very act feels as if a mass of clinging, wet wool has been lifted from my body, and I breathe with greater ease as, after stowing my small bag in the trunk, I slide into the driver’s seat of the ’92 Ford Contour that I recently acquired from my older brother. It groans a little as I turn the key in the ignition, and it reminds me a bit of how I feel right now, as if it takes a massive amount of energy to just get started on my journey.

      I need this break, I rationalize to myself. I need it so that I don’t go crazy. Lord knows I’ve been through enough lately, what with the extra courses that I’ve been taking on top of my already full course load, my honors mentoring program, and of course, that nasty little episode with the head of the department, the one in which I ratted him out for feeling me up, which, needless to say, he wasn’t really thrilled about. The memory of it all eases my guilt over the money and time that are about to be spent, and I’m feeling better already as I edge out of the stinking, steaming city and onto the highway, where the wind of speed gusts through my wide open windows. The ground swells as I drive, moving from gently rolling plains to pregnant hills. Soon the granite-colored mountains begin to break out of the land in giant, craggy spears, and I sigh in contentment at the knowledge that, even as I drive, the geothermal soup of the steaming springs is bubbling its way down the mountain in preparation for my healing, two-day soak.

      I’m more ready for this weekend than even my own brain can fathom. Now, with a rest in sight, the hunched and crunched muscles of my neck and back—the ones that I’ve thoughtlessly abused for countless hours over the past year, the ones stiff with stress—make their protests known, begging for the mystical healing of the salty springs, the healing of centuries past.

      The power, the magic of the ancient place hits me the moment that I arrive and, swinging my pack over my shoulder, where it tangles in my long chestnut hair, I scurry towards the reception desk, eager to get checked into my room and to get my body into the hot pool.

      The air of the old place is solemn as I pad my way to my room—solemn but not serious, as if the peace that the old, bubbling well promises demands respect. I find myself quivering with anticipation as I change into my suit, a solid-red two piece, and for once I don’t agonize over the shape of my ass, the softness of my belly, the jiggle of my thighs in the mirror, so eager am I. The room keys are attached to safety pins, and I secure mine to my left hip as I walk, barefoot on the crunchy beige carpeting, my curves hidden by a thick, plush hotel towel. I lose no time ditching the cover-up and easing my body, inch by delicious inch, into the warm water, water made silky with its minerals.

      If I had had any doubts about the necessity of this trip, they would have washed away at this moment, with the quiet ripples of wet that circle me, cocooning me in their soothing arms. My every thought drifts, oozing out of my pores and away, away to where I can’t reach, and all that is left is peace.

      I see the man and woman when, after growing a shade too hot, I ease my body out of the pool, hitching myself up by my arms to sit on the cool, slick tile. They are hard not to notice, the slick city couple unloading luggage from the black Lincoln Navigator, a vehicle likely kept in pristine condition normally, but that is now speckled with bugs and muck from the long drive on the highway.

      They’re not perfect looking, even with their designer shoes and confident gaits. Still, something about them catches my attention, and I stare unabashedly at them as they progress to the glassed-in reception area, as I create ripples in the glassy water with my big toe.

      It’s the woman who intrigues me the most. She’s not thin, as I usually picture business women to be, but rather quite thick, with the voluptuous curves that come with the decadence of flesh. Instead of appearing sloppy, though, her extra flesh, which from here looks to be as firm and smooth as the skin of a ripe, juicy nectarine, appears…lush. Decadent. It makes me want to touch, a realization that comes as quite the surprise to me, since I’ve never in my life felt what I would consider to be a homosexual urge.

      Still, I rationalize, looking isn’t touching, so I continue to watch, taking in details as obvious as the coppery fall of her hair, and as miniscule and discreet as the tiny tattoo winding its way around her ankle, barely visible through her flesh-toned nylons.

      The man is good-looking, too, but I don’t find him nearly as interesting as the woman. Tall, health-club fit, salt-and-pepper hair. He’s handsome, but lacks the…well, the charisma, the vital life-force energy, that his woman exudes in spades.

      My brain has become jelly, too relaxed to contemplate the pair further, as they turn the key to their door and disappear from view. Out of sight, out of mind, I think as I lay back, baking brown as bread in the hot sun, the tile cool and wet at my back. But they are out of my senses for only a few scant minutes, reappearing quickly, wrapped in the plushy white towels provided by the hotel, apparently as eager for a soak as I had been.

      My eyes remain mostly closed as I watch them approach the pool; interesting as I find them, I don’t want to be creepy. When they shed their wraps and walk to the water, I notice that the woman has a second tattoo, an Asian character high on her thigh, peeking out the leg opening of her neon striped bikini. The man has one, too; a wiry, barbed rope tracing a ring around his upper arm.

      I feel a sudden, odd urge to show off my tattoo, as well; the one that reads “faith” and rides low on my back, barely missing the cleft that divides my ass.

      I don’t of course. That would be weird.

      I slip back into the water, the soft wetness washing away the salty trickles of sweat that have pooled between my breasts and my thighs from the heat of the sun. I wish that I had my sunglasses with me, to protect my eyes from the bright glare on the water, of course, but also to hide the gaze that I can’t quite keep from returning to the couple, over and over again.

      I watch as they exchange a kiss, the intimate kind that looks so innocent but speaks of years of togetherness. The man swings himself out of the pool, biceps rippling, gleaming droplets of water caught in the whorls of hair on his chest. The woman casts her eyes around the pool, taking in the vivid landscape, the building,

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