by Elise Swanson Ochoa
I pay these bastards every week because someone told me it was good for me. I pay her too. I pay my monthly subscriptions. I hate taillights, tire screeches, and my tight neck.
“Mongolia was a dream.”
“I feel your gratitude.”
“Embrace it; your aura is so bright today.” The sound bathers say, filing in around each other. I never talk to anyone here. I’m here for the candles. Flames and flickers dance against the low ceiling with me on my cold, hard mat. There are bearded men with long, thin hair and bags under their eyes. There are women that stink of curry and cat litter, whose wrap skirts flutter as they sink to their mats. Bangles clatter as men and women tie up their matted hair.
I get off on a good eye roll. If it’s a hard roll with my eyes closed, they’ll think I’m deep in already. This time, I’m telling myself never to get a cat.
The gong sounds. Whispers die. Everything dies here. The rain starts up, a pattering through the speakers. One soft note rings out from the Tibetan singing owl, continuous as its tone strengthens and weakens. I count the revolutions. I’ve always wanted to see the Himalayas.
We’re breathing now. That nasal spray opens my passages, as much as I hate to admit it. The air is cold and dry. Unclench and let the air out, hot. The candle’s flicker dances with the incense under my nose. I hate guns.
Who mentioned Mongolia? They worship horses there. No toilets. Oh, toilets. Toilets in dark, loud pits. Toilet paper all over a black, damp floor. Vulgar graffiti, leaky sinks, my skirt was inching up my tight ass. He said sweetie, beautiful, thanks for inviting me in. I look, and I look in my head, but I’d never seen him in my life. Did I invite him in? Did I? He locked the door. Hey, that’s my skirt. The music outside pounded through the door. I don’t remember. I don’t remember.
“Remember to breathe. Let’s call out together, let’s invite Earth’s energy into the space we’ve created,” our host says, at barely a whisper.
“Repeat: Bright blue flame like me. Bright blue flame like me.”
The rain patters. Am I a flame?
Other voices alliterate in unison: “Bright blue flame like me.”
No more tight skirts that ride up my ass. No more yoga pants too. Too many eyes.
Not here. Nobody sees me here, thank God.
The monotonous chants rise, stronger:
“Bright blue flame like me.”
“Bright blue flame like me.”
The walls vibrate. The rain in the speakers is too quiet now. The candlelight dances in tune to the chants.
“Bright blue flame like me”
What am I doing here? My fire? I thought it was gone.
“Bright blue flame like me”
“Bright blue flame like me”
Someone told me this was good for me. He said that too, but he didn’t know me. Some people know me. Some people love me.
Category: Featured, Short Story