His head surfaced through the angelic flaps of arms and legs in the water. He swam to the edge of the pool, resting. Around him, the bodies shifted, distorted, Baconesque slivers through soft-hued light. He framed thigh, nipple, gentle curls, the groove of a lower back. A tattoo coiled like a tail into soft folds. Dark round lamps shone like pregnant bellies. It was like he was invisible, merged into the tiles of the bathhouse. The light seemed to flow from inside the women themselves as they danced shy, delicate steps across the slippery floor into the water. Having discarded their white gowns at the entrance, onto coat hangers, they clutched small towels as a last refuge. But a sign above said NO TOWELS; they had no choice. The first timers glimpsed around and tiptoed, hoping to blend in to the mural of nymphs on the wall, covering their breasts with their hands, then got into the water quickly, no eye contact. The regulars couldn’t wait: chests out, swanning, appraising the new clientele with a half-smile.
By the mirror, a woman sat astride a blue chair washing herself. She slowly rinsed her hair, using a plastic jug, before entering the bubbles, feet-first, shooting a jet of ginseng and spirits into the room. Women sat in the pool at right angles, glancing at each other gently, not quite touching. They watched their toes then closed their eyes.
Surrounded by bare women, he felt completely insulated. The rare beauty of bellies and breasts, the scars and scratches, marked a woman’s language of childhood and childbirth, accidents, self-harm. Couples shared tattoos on their lower backs, holding hands as they entered. A daughter’s body echoed her mother’s as they brushed each other’s hair.
In the dry sauna, he poured a bucket of water onto the coals and sat, legs out on the top step, rugged up in panelled pine. His throat filled with fire as he peeked into the steam of the wet sauna next door. At first he couldn’t make her out through the fog. But she gradually became clear to him. A girl lounged on the edge of the wooden bench, one leg bent and tucked, another foot pressed arching against the hot wall, her face turned away from him.
She brushed her hair with soft hands. He pressed his body against the hot wall that separated them and found it cooled to his touch, as if she were inviting him in. He left an imprint of sweat, the long lean shape of him, as he moved from his room into hers. She didn’t look up as he lay down on the wooden slats. Her skin held the sheen of new pottery, fired in a kiln glaze. He reached out and twisted her around so she was facing him, her eyes so dark you couldn’t distinguish the pupils. There was no surprise in her face to see him here. He leant slowly in to kiss her.
Her tongue began thin and slippery, twitching, bringing with it a flavour of roasting popcorn, of hazelnuts. But as he opened his mouth wider, her tongue changed, became delicate and furry, suffocating, and his closed eyes flickered in surprise, wanting to end the kiss.
As she burrowed deeper, she held his head with her hands so tight that when he tried to struggle he couldn’t move. He began to fill with the taste and sound of tiny beating wings, moths fighting against his cheeks, clattering against his tongue, until he could no longer open his mouth. They started to flutter down his throat, their furry bodies writhing over each other, multiplying as they went, until the mass was so thick he could no longer breathe. He held her pale body tight and tried to choke out for help. But he was drowning, drowning, could no longer scream or swallow, could no longer remember her smile.