Inessa: I had barely accepted the swimsuit-free sauna rule when I found a woman wearing a bikini—and my husband chose that moment to look far too pleased with our afternoon.
The woman on the sauna bench was wearing a bikini, and I was standing beside my husband with nothing on but an increasingly unconvincing expression of confidence. I looked at her, then at him. “Daniel. Explain.” He glanced at the bikini as though it might provide a statement. “I can explain the sign,” he whispered. “Apparently I can’t explain her.” I tightened my grip on my towel. Five minutes naked, and already I wanted to speak to management.
At the entrance, there had been a crossed-out swimsuit symbol with actual swimsuits hanging underneath it. Short of someone confiscating mine, the instructions couldn’t have been clearer. We’d left ours on hooks, wrapped ourselves in towels and headed for the showers. I had waited for a free one, hung up my towel and washed with the brisk efficiency of someone defusing a bomb. Daniel had smiled at me afterward. I’d thought the difficult part was over. Then we met the exception reclining comfortably on the upper bench.
“Could I have kept mine on?” I whispered as we spread our towels out. “The rule says no,” he said. “Well, hers says yes.” He pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh, which made me laugh and lose my stern expression. I sat beside him, very aware of the warm air against skin that ordinarily went through a public afternoon fully covered. Everyone else was minding their own business. My husband, however, gave me one small, affectionate look, and suddenly I had no idea where to put my hands.
“What?” I asked. “Nothing. You look more relaxed.” “That’s an extraordinary misunderstanding.” He leaned close enough to keep his voice between us. “All right. You look lovely and deeply suspicious.” That was worse, obviously. We’d been married long enough for nudity at home to mean someone needed a clean towel, yet here I was blushing because he’d noticed me sitting beside him. I started to fold an arm across myself, caught myself doing it, and reached for his hand instead. “You’re still responsible for the bikini discrepancy.” “I assumed that would follow me home.”
We tried a cooler sauna next, then a hotter one, with showers between them. At first I treated every towel transfer as a complicated handover. Daniel patiently held things while I made it harder than necessary. By the third shower, I stepped under the water without rehearsing it. Unfortunately, I hadn’t checked the temperature. The cold hit my shoulders and I spun out sideways with a completely undignified squeak, nearly marching straight into him. He backed up, laughing. “Refreshing?” “Don’t use brochure language at me.” I was laughing too, dripping onto the tiles with my towel still on its hook, and for once retrieving it didn’t feel urgent.
Downstairs, I found the circular pool. Daniel stopped to drink some water while I slipped in, pushed away from the edge and stretched out on my back. As soon as my ears went under, music appeared, surprisingly clear. I lifted my head. It vanished. Lowered it. There it was again. I repeated this several times, probably looking like I was testing a faulty pillow, before settling into a float. The water held me comfortably, and I let my arms drift wide. For the first time all afternoon, I wasn’t arranging myself for anyone.
When I opened my eyes, Daniel was at the edge, smiling. There was that look again, but this time I smiled back instead of checking how much of me the water concealed. I swept my hands down and turned upright with a splash. “There’s music under here.” “I wondered why you’d abandoned me.” “Better entertainment.” He joined me, and I took his hand, guiding him farther out. We tried floating side by side, but he kept sinking his ears without getting the rest of himself comfortable. I laughed so hard I swallowed water. Romance, apparently, still required some practical coordination.
Later, he found me beside our towels and asked, “Did you actually enjoy it?” I still had warm water in one ear and absolutely no explanation for the bikini. “Yes,” I said. “But I’m choosing what we do next.” He reached toward the exit, where our swimsuits were waiting upstairs. I caught his hand and turned us back toward the pool. “Not those yet.” His smile was immediate. “Another song?” “At least one. And this time try to float without looking like you’re assembling furniture.”
At the entrance, there had been a crossed-out swimsuit symbol with actual swimsuits hanging underneath it. Short of someone confiscating mine, the instructions couldn’t have been clearer. We’d left ours on hooks, wrapped ourselves in towels and headed for the showers. I had waited for a free one, hung up my towel and washed with the brisk efficiency of someone defusing a bomb. Daniel had smiled at me afterward. I’d thought the difficult part was over. Then we met the exception reclining comfortably on the upper bench.
“Could I have kept mine on?” I whispered as we spread our towels out. “The rule says no,” he said. “Well, hers says yes.” He pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh, which made me laugh and lose my stern expression. I sat beside him, very aware of the warm air against skin that ordinarily went through a public afternoon fully covered. Everyone else was minding their own business. My husband, however, gave me one small, affectionate look, and suddenly I had no idea where to put my hands.
“What?” I asked. “Nothing. You look more relaxed.” “That’s an extraordinary misunderstanding.” He leaned close enough to keep his voice between us. “All right. You look lovely and deeply suspicious.” That was worse, obviously. We’d been married long enough for nudity at home to mean someone needed a clean towel, yet here I was blushing because he’d noticed me sitting beside him. I started to fold an arm across myself, caught myself doing it, and reached for his hand instead. “You’re still responsible for the bikini discrepancy.” “I assumed that would follow me home.”
We tried a cooler sauna next, then a hotter one, with showers between them. At first I treated every towel transfer as a complicated handover. Daniel patiently held things while I made it harder than necessary. By the third shower, I stepped under the water without rehearsing it. Unfortunately, I hadn’t checked the temperature. The cold hit my shoulders and I spun out sideways with a completely undignified squeak, nearly marching straight into him. He backed up, laughing. “Refreshing?” “Don’t use brochure language at me.” I was laughing too, dripping onto the tiles with my towel still on its hook, and for once retrieving it didn’t feel urgent.
Downstairs, I found the circular pool. Daniel stopped to drink some water while I slipped in, pushed away from the edge and stretched out on my back. As soon as my ears went under, music appeared, surprisingly clear. I lifted my head. It vanished. Lowered it. There it was again. I repeated this several times, probably looking like I was testing a faulty pillow, before settling into a float. The water held me comfortably, and I let my arms drift wide. For the first time all afternoon, I wasn’t arranging myself for anyone.
When I opened my eyes, Daniel was at the edge, smiling. There was that look again, but this time I smiled back instead of checking how much of me the water concealed. I swept my hands down and turned upright with a splash. “There’s music under here.” “I wondered why you’d abandoned me.” “Better entertainment.” He joined me, and I took his hand, guiding him farther out. We tried floating side by side, but he kept sinking his ears without getting the rest of himself comfortable. I laughed so hard I swallowed water. Romance, apparently, still required some practical coordination.
Later, he found me beside our towels and asked, “Did you actually enjoy it?” I still had warm water in one ear and absolutely no explanation for the bikini. “Yes,” I said. “But I’m choosing what we do next.” He reached toward the exit, where our swimsuits were waiting upstairs. I caught his hand and turned us back toward the pool. “Not those yet.” His smile was immediate. “Another song?” “At least one. And this time try to float without looking like you’re assembling furniture.”
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