I’m incredibly conscious of my nakedness underneath this robe. There’s something about being in a common space in a state of undress, even one filled with similarly half-dressed humans, that feels exposing. To describe myself as modest would be incredibly silly, but I’m also not apt to parade around with my lady bits out. I think I float somewhere in the middle. Somewhere that has me thinking about my bare bottom pressing against the plush lounge situated in a corner of the “Relaxation Room” with just a layer of worn faux fur and cotton between.
Scrolling through my phone in a mostly disingenuous way, I find myself glancing up often to see if one of my relatives who accompanied me here is walking through the smoked glass archway at the far end of the room. It’s hard to focus on whatever bullshit I have open on my phone when all I can think about is not situating myself in a way that gives the room a clear view of the parts of me I don’t want random strangers seeing. At least not the random strangers in this room.
I pick up the plastic cup on the table next to me, and bring it to my mouth, allowing the chilled water to slosh against my recently lubricated lips. My face feels highly moisturized in that way that’s really lovely and also, revolting. Slimy. I allow my eyes to flutter closed for a moment and take a deep breath, imagining I can smell the minerals famously enriching the local water. Some fragrance that’s faint but distinctly clean. Mint or sage, perhaps.
A smile tugs on my lips as I open my eyes to see my baby sister walking towards me. Baby is an outrageous description, with just fourteen months between us, and yet, that’s what she is, always.
Oh hi, I say, when she’s close enough.
Hey, she replies, draping her body awkwardly across a lounge diagonal to the one I’m on. She’s clearly also concerned with flashing the room, so her movements are purposeful. One hand presses into where her robe fabric crosses just above her knees and the other braces to aid her movement to the back of the furniture.
These things are so uncomfortable, she says.
Yeah, I know, I reply, I think the crew across the room got a full view of my vagina twenty minutes ago or so.
She grimaces at the suggestion, but it’s put on, and I can tell, because I know her, and a hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth where she’s currently forcing her lips into something of a zigzag shape.
Where’s mom? She asks.
Dunno, I reply. I haven’t seen her come back to the room yet.
At that, we both pause and glance around the room. A funny gesture, as if we may have missed her hiding behind the pyramid of herbal teas or the stack of spa-appropriate reading material.
After a full appraisal of the room, my gaze lands on the apples thoughtfully piled in a wooden bowl at the far left corner of the space. And then, drifts to the back of the robe-clad individual situated just in front of that area, and then, down to his feet.
Three thoughts occur to me simultaneously, as follows:
Why do they have to put men and women in the same relaxation space?
His ankles are so hairy.
Is that an ankle monitor?
What the fuck?
I hear those words whispered just to the left of me and know, without looking, that my sister is contemplating the same exact thing. Well, the ankle monitor part, anyway. I look to my left, and we make eye contact, confirming my assumption.
She pulls her phone out of her robe pocket and starts typing furiously, only pausing to look up and shake her phone at me, which I take to be the universal sign for “I’m about to text you some shit, so get ready.”
Her: Is that what I think it is?
Me: Image of an ankle monitor found on Google.
Her: Um, what? Meme of a man wearing a prison jumpsuit.
Me: Yeah, I know, it’s fucking weird.
Her: Do you think we should warn mom?
Me: Warn her? Like tell her that she should stay hunkered down in the locker room to avoid Capital Criminal?
Her: I dunno. Just feels super creepy.
Me: Because it is. What the fuck is he doing at the spa? What do you think he did?
Her: Getting a massage?
Me: Do you think he keeps the ankle bracelet on the whole time?
Her: Doesn’t he have to? I think that’s kind of the point.
Me: Yeah, I know. I guess I’m just trying to understand. Do you think he’s like- just focus on my shoulders, because I’m kind of tense??!
Her: I asked Google and AI told me- In most cases, you cannot go to a spa for a massage without prior approval from your probation/parole officer, because ankle monitor rules require that all travel be pre‑approved and that you stay within your authorized zones and curfew times.
Me: Cool. Well, he’s here. So, I guess he was pre-approved to be here? Still, this feels weird, no?
Her: Meme of a prison break.
Me: Meme of Angela Lansbury behind bars.
Me: OMG- do you remember Murder She Wrote?
Her: Yeah.
Me: Did you know Angela Lansbury was a chain smoker from the time she was like 14 until she was like 40 and then quit?
Her: Meme of a cartoon potato with the words “Im a potato”
Me: I don’t get it.
Her: Exactly. It’s random.
Me: What?
Her: Who cares that Angela Lansbury chain smoked? We are literally at the spa with a criminal with an ankle monitor. What is he’s trying to sneak into the baths to like tamper with it or something?
Me: I’m pretty sure they can track him here. Like, they know that he’s at the spa already.
Her: Good point. That’s weird, right?
Me: That they can track him?
Her: No. That he’s allowed to go to the spa.
Me: Oh. Yeah. Totally.
Dad: I just got out of lunch and I’m trying to follow this conversation. There’s a criminal at the spa? Where’s your mother?
New text.
Her: Meme of a cat sweating with the words “Mistakes were made”
Me: I forgot we were on the family chat.
Her: Same.
Me: Wanna fuck with dad?
Her: Sure.
Family chat.
Me: Yes, but he’s super handsome. I think I’m going to ask him what he did.
Dad: Don’t you dare.
Her: I told her that she should. She’s glowing from her facial.
Me: Meme of Beyonce in a gold lame bikini flipping her hair.
Dad: Where’s your mother?
Her: Unclear.
Me: Somewhere.
Dad: I know you are adults, but you are not permitted to talk to him.
Me: But what if it’s just for a white-collar crime?
Her: Yeah, can she marry him if it’s just like embezzlement or something?
Dad: No.
Her: No, no or maybe, no?
Dad. No. No.
Me: I’ll see how I feel after my massage. Meme of a woman speaking into a cell phone with the words “I need you to get bail money.”
Dad: Not funny.
Her: Sort of funny.
Mom: Where are you two? Did you see the guy wearing the ankle monitor?
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