Mud technician? Was that really a thing? I tried to picture the school aptitude test results coming back recommending “mud technician” as your career.
“Kimi, in your career planning, did you ever consider ‘mud technician’ as a career choice?”
“I can honestly say that I did not.” Her eyes were closed and her voice sounded sleepy.
Our “technicians” arrived several minutes later. They removed stainless steel pots, essentially crock pots, from under the counter where they had been simmering like a bubbling cauldron of grey goo. The ladies gently spread the thick mud up our legs, all around, then encased them in plastic wrap. They moved up to our hips and abdomen, then finally our shoulders and arms, leaving only our faces free.
They said we could relax for 20 minutes while the mud from some exotic locale would pull yet more toxins from our tissue, then they left us alone.
I did a quick bladder check and was fairly confident I could last 20 minutes. But if there was a fire alarm, we were toast. I wasn’t sure we could waddle to the door, let alone make it outside. My face was pouring sweat by the time the techs came back and released us from our plastic prisons, gently scraping the mud off with sculpted jade stones to “stimulate circulation and lymphatic drainage.”
Then we were allowed to shower the remaining muck off and put our robes and slippers back on. Shanice guided us to a table set for two on the mezzanine of the atrium. An actual waterfall cascaded into a pool with bright fish and lilies. Ferns springing from between the rocks and vibrant hanging plants gave the whole place a tropical feel.
Almost as soon as we were seated, a white-coated server brought us our lunch orders. Large bowls of salad were generously topped with bright pink shrimp, garnished with avocado and mango with our dressing on the side. There was a plate of fresh croissants and a plate with assorted fresh fruits. Our server, a young woman, was just placing glasses in front of us, informing us that it was fruit-infused sparkling water. I pushed my glass aside and leaned toward her with a persuasive smile. “Thanks, but we’d like mimosas.”
She seemed taken aback and stuttered something about cleansing and hydration, but I fixed her with a firm gaze and repeated, “We’d like mimosas.”
Clearly remembering that we were VIPs, she nodded her head and said, “Yes, ma’am, right away.”
Kimi leaned across the table and fist-bumped me. “Boss move, Eve. I can see why you are the deal closer.”
I smiled wryly. “It’s all about knowing what you want and not taking no for an answer.”
After our drinks arrived we clinked glasses and took big sips. “Ahhhhh,” we said at the same time.
Kimi forked up a big bite of salad and gave it a thumbs up. I reached for a croissant and critically tore off a bite, testing for flakiness, then let it melt on my tongue, enjoying the flavors.
“Pas mal,” was my seal of approval. “Not bad at all.”
“Oh, that’s right! I’d forgotten you’re French. Or part French. Didn’t you pull some kind of Frenchy shit when you met Jack?” Kimi asked, after another sip of her drink.
I chuckled at the memory. “Yes, I always put on a heavy French accent when I’m traveling so that people don’t try to strike up conversations with me. And it happened that I’d already done that when I was seated next to Jack. He was going to a funeral, and he asked me to go along as his emotional support animal, so I pretended to be his French girlfriend.”
Kimi barked out a laugh. “That’s hilarious! He didn’t tell me that part. What were people’s reactions?”
I smirked at the memory. “The best part was when I was in the bathroom stall, and a posse of girls came in trash-talking me and saying how one of them was going to snatch up Jack as husband material.”
“No way!” Kimi leaned across the table, eyes wide. “What did you do?”
“I came out, smiled charmingly, washed my hands, then went back outside. Then I got Jack out of there pronto. He didn’t need to deal with the harpies while he was sad. And drunk.”
“Drunk? Jack almost never gets drunk. That must have been funny.”
“He wasn’t funny, so much as just…sweet.”
“Sweet?” Her eyebrows perked up in interest.
“Yes. It was too late to call my driver, and I didn’t want to call an Uber, so he offered that I could stay in his room for the night.”
“I’ll bet he did!” She bit into a strawberry with a wicked grin on her face.
I threw a grape at her, which she caught in her open mouth with ease, laughing.
“Nothing happened, Kimi. He was a bit drunk, but still a gentleman. Nothing happened.” I emphasized.
“Oooookaaaaay,” She drew out the syllables way too long, looking skeptical. “If you say so, Eve.”
She forked up more salad then said, “Say something to me in your French accent. I want to hear it.”
