Wet. Lauren Hawkeye

husband has just gone off to the steam room, and how am I enjoying my stay? Have I been here before?

      I tell her that my name is Tabitha, that I’ve just arrived here, myself, and that, no, I’ve never been here before. I’m in university, I say, and haven’t been on a vacation in five years.

      She tilts her head to one side inquisitively, and asks why I have chosen now.

      I just needed a break, I say. A weekend to soak away my stress here, at the healing pool. She nods, and I get the sense that, somehow, she understands completely.

      “We come here whenever we can,” she stretches as she says this, and her breasts peek momentarily out of the water, buoyed by the clean, clear blue. My gaze travels farther down her lush flesh, the view of which is distorted by the water, and I am startled at the revelation that her navel is pierced. In that sexy dimple of flesh sparkles what must be a ruby, though it’s almost too big to believe, and she catches me staring and laughs, deep and throaty.

      “Eye-catching, isn’t it?” A slender finger glides through the water to toy with the jewel. “Adam bought it for me for our fifth anniversary. I love rubies. The deep red, the gleam. So passionate. So…seductive.” She shoots me a wicked smile as these words fall out of her mouth, and I gulp past the huge lump that has lodged itself in my throat. She moves closer, and closer again, as the water whispers around us. And while I seem to be helpless to move away, I have no idea what to do, or what to say. Is she just being friendly, or is she flirting with me?

      Moreover, is that what I want?

      She’s close enough now that I can smell her breath, minty and sweet, and for a moment, as I stand frozen in the steaming water, I think that she’s about to kiss me. And, for reasons that I don’t understand, I want her to. I want those bow-shaped, cherry-colored arches pressing against my lips.

      The idea both sickens and excites me.

      The moment is broken by Adam, her husband, calling her name as he crosses the patio from the steam room to where we stand, almost submerged in the water. I jerk back, guiltily, away from Susan, but she makes no move to break the intense connection that I am sure we must both be feeling; he doesn’t even seem to register the situation.

      Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’ve misunderstood.

      I ease back a little further still as they chat, a meaningless little conversation. My heart is pounding a wicked tattoo beneath my left breast, and I can feel a slickness between my legs that has nothing to do with the water surrounding me.

      I have no idea what is going on. I have always thought of myself as heterosexual, completely and totally so. I’ve never even had a dream or a passing thought, sexually, I mean, about another woman. So what is happening here, then? Because I know that my fascination is with her, not him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s sexy as all get out with those ropy muscles and that cocky grin, his swim trunks riding low on his hips, and I wouldn’t say no to having his face buried between my legs. But it’s her that my eyes are drawn to, her that is making my mouth water.

      This is all more confusion that I want to have on my weekend away. I should just leave. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

      I begin to make my way towards the edge of the pool, but as I move, I feel a hand on my arm. I freeze, barely breathing. I know that it’s her from the way that my skin burns, and as my eyes travel to her own big brown ones, to the ruby stud, then to the eyes again, I find my tongue glued to the top of my mouth.

      “You’re not going, surely?” She studies my face, gives my arm a little squeeze, and my stomach does a series of quick, fierce rolls.

      “Oh, stay,” adds Adam, sliding muscled legs that are liberally dusted with springy coils of hair into the heated silk of the water. He makes his way to his wife, embraces her from behind. Resting his chin on her shoulder, his hands reach around and strum a slow, seductive rhythm on the ruby; I watch, mesmerized. With a wicked glint in his eyes, he slides a finger, just the tip, into the waistband of her bikini bottoms. Over her sigh, he adds, “We’d really like you to stay, wouldn’t we, hon?” She leans back against him, clearly enjoying the embrace, and I think for a moment that she might have drifted off to sleep, but she opens her eyes just enough that I can see a sliver of chocolately caramel and says, “You’ll have dinner with us, won’t you?”

      Breathless, I nod, and my nipples contract, something that I’m sure they both notice.

      “Good.” They breathe in unison, and my cunt tightens, wondering what will happen next.

      We eat at a small Italian bistro that is hidden away in the back corner of the resort, one that I had no idea even existed. They’ve eaten here before, many times, it seems; they call the host by name, and every time that Susan smiles at him, his aged cheeks flush a ruddy shade of rose and he stutters.

      In my deep, secret self I had rather hoped that we would be ordering room service. I’m still questioning if they are actually interested in me, sexually, I mean, and don’t want to suggest it, lest I seem too forward. It’s nice here, though, and I can feel myself relaxing even further than I had earlier, in the pool, when I was as limp and worn out as an overcooked lasagna noodle, a travesty that surely would never occur in an authentic little Italian spot such as this.

      I look around, absorbing my surroundings. I want to etch every detail of this surreal experience, of my weekend away from my real self, indelibly onto the surface of my brain and hold it there forever.

      There are no open tables here; instead, round slabs of dark wood are secreted away into the cozy, horseshoe-shaped booths of buttery worn leather, booths so private that our waiter can’t even be seen until, suddenly, he is there. The wood is covered with floor-grazing checkered cloths, just exactly as I’ve seen in hundreds of movies over the years, and fat white tapers drip wax, slow and sinuous, down the side of the green Chianti bottles that they sit in. Their flames, so delicate, stutter as we breathe, and the reds of the fire remind me of Susan’s ruby, so vibrant and bright. When I inhale, the heady scents of garlic and oregano tickle the insides of my nostrils. I’m sure that the smells will cling to my clothing after we leave, to my skin and my hair, but right now Italian cooking is at the top of my list for seductive scents, so I can’t say that I much care.