“Keep someone on both of them at all times.”
“That’s double the resources.” Keith wipes his brow with his sleeve.
“Your point?” Just kidding, that is a textbook withering stare.
“Right. Okay.” The poor kid looks like he’s seconds away from passing out. His black shirt is soaked through.
“Anything else?” Zebulund asks.
When Keith shakes his head, Zebulund points to the door with one finger. Keith leaves.
The air grows heavy. Zebulund leans his head back against the bench and lets out a deep sigh. I’ve watched a lot of people by themselves over the last few years. It’s not totally unexpected what people do. Lots of random bodily functions, nose picking, bits of unfinished conversations, the occasional song solo. Nothing totally unexpected.
“Am I alone?” he says into the small room. His deep voice rumbles off the walls and sends chills down my neck.
Okay, now that’s unexpected.
My stomach clenches. The air’s cloudy with steam but his outline is clear enough. I look right at him but he isn’t looking at me. He’s scanning the room. For something. A sign, I realize. His finger tapping repeatedly on the bench is the only sign that something agitates his cool demeanor.
Here I am with a bowl full of lemons thrown at me from life itself about to make some sweet, sweet lemonade. The room consists of a tile bench, a box with glowing coils, and a bucket of water with a ladle. Zebulund takes up an entire corner. There are no cards to throw, no TVs to turn on.
He peeks open one eye and searches the room. “That’s what I thought.”
I roll my eyes. Thought what, exactly? He grumbles something else I can’t quite make out. He leans back and closes his eyes again, hands intertwined on his hairy belly.
So, that’s it? He wants a sign? I’ll give him a freaking sign. I grab the ladle from the tub of water and swing it violently around. Little drops of water fly off the end but go totally unnoticed in this environment. He doesn’t even open his eyes.
Something else catches my notice.
The spoon in my hand, just like the rest of me, starts to turn translucent. Like me. What. The. Hell. That same weird bubbly look spreads from where I hold it and up the handle until it’s completely gone. I’m clear but distorted when I look down and see myself, and now the spoon and I are one.
Now that I think about it, I’ve been Under over fifteen minutes, easily, maybe more. I’m not dizzy or disoriented at all. I feel normal. Better than normal, like I sipped from the Fountain of Youth.
The moisture in the room must be crucial here. Does that mean my powers, or whatever less lame word I can use, get stronger when I’m in a wet environment? Maybe the trick is to be really wet!
There’s a dirty joke in there.
I can’t wait to show Roe. Would he be able to see it? Okay, well this is a new development. Put a pin in that to circle back to later. In the meantime, action.
The invisible spoon submerges in the water. I dump a massive spoonful onto the coals. I hop back to see Zebulund’s reaction clearly as a huge angry steam cloud hisses through the room. He scuttles backward up the wall as far as he can go, all the while clutching at his heart.
“Who’s there?” His head swings back and forth. “Who did that?”
The spoon bounces off his head, because while I’m a full-grown woman, I’m also a child at heart. An angry, petulant child.
I have no regrets.
He scrambles sideways against the wall toward the door. He moves faster than any man I’ve ever seen wrapped in only a towel. I beat him to the door. It crashes open when I throw my body against it a second before he reaches it.
A blast of cool air bursts into the room as I run out. He stands there, pale-faced and horrified. A second later the door slams shut. Still in my childish state I hold myself against the door, pushing with all my might. I’m thin but I pack a punch. He tries to thrust open the door and my body is violently shoved but I don’t give in so easy. My toes grip the floor without much purchase. I’ll be bruised tomorrow. Totally worth it.
In his panic, he bangs his fists, screaming to be let out. A few men in the hot tub outside the room stare at the door. They glance at each other and one starts to get out to help.
That’s my cue to book it.
I let go and quickly back away. The next time he pushes, he barrels out as the door flies open. He drips all over and is redder than a sunburned tourist. It’s awesome. He collects himself and his pride as much as possible, holding the towel with one hand and pushing back his graying hair with the other.
“I’ll talk to management about this,” he says to all the slack-jawed men looking at him. He jabs a finger in the direction of the steam room. “That’s a health risk.”
