the guest and the host

Beneath the covers, my palm patted the side of my bed. Left. Right. Forward. Back. A feeble attempt at finding my bearings in the dark. My phone was surely buried somewhere near. What time is it? I rotated onto my side. The blackout shades were drawn but not pulled down all the way. There were four stacks of books resting on the window sill, each about four books high. One, a stack of fiery red spines, sat upright. One stared back at me: red block letters in bold that declared Poetics of Resistance (a book on the Zapatista insurgency). Behind them, snow accumulated between the window and balcony—a julienned juliette, a sliver about two inches deep. Outside the snow was falling steadily without rest. Inside I was cocooned in blankets, doe-eyed in a daze.

3:43am

I worm my way to a seat, losing the grip on my phone. It knocks. I sit upright. Both eyes squint to adjust. The glow is hazy. The light distorted. It peers in between snow and shade. My eyes shut—a momentary reprieve jolted awake by the heaviness of my head. I cradle it in my palm, my hand cupping the left ear. An achy spot by my thumb. I apply pressure. Occipital bone, I note. I couldn’t discern whether the indentation was part of the normal curvature of my skull, or a residual marking left from the procedure. Only the left side was tender.

***

The room barely came into view. Incandescent silhouettes hovered nearby and my skin oscillated from warm to cool as they moved back and forth. I could hear shrieks in one-second staccato intervals. My ear flinched each time. The sedative was wearing off. A pin-thin needle spun around with painstaking precision. A tiny incision—a spec to be more precise—would be the only evidence anything had happened. I lay on the padded platform partially submerged in a substance somewhere between liquid and jelly. Viscose. It was cooling. The substance lapped at my ankles and heels, pooling around the backs of my calves and thighs. It made tiny splashes against the concave of my spine. My hands lay palms up, the backside of my arms soaked. I thought to rub my eyes, but my arms were immovable.

***

Rubbing clockwise, I wondered if it might leave an imprint. Wincing at the pressure, I held my breath, but gave in quickly to a violent exhale. The spiraling rotation from pain to relief, pain to relief, was narcotic. My eyeballs rolled back as I withdrew from the point. It triggered a piercing ring registering near the crown.

***

It awoke in a new environment, its claws clinging to the surface with superhuman grip. Its protrusions are shaped like sharp cloven hooves. Six protrusions. Two on each side. Its tail, the fifth, snaked as it whipped back and forth. It had scales running from tail to vertebrae and meeting at the sixth, its hooded-beak. Its eyes were piercing royal blue and its scales a deeper indigo. Its shadow trailed behind with violet undertones. It was peckish, gnawing at the surface. As it tore at the flesh, the surface splintered then frayed.

***

Frontiers of Physiology

Effect of hot water immersion on acute physiological responses following resistance training

Abstract

Methods: The effect of HWI on intramuscular temperature (IMT), muscle function, muscle soreness and blood markers of muscle cell disruption and inflammatory processes after resistance training was assessed. Sixteen resistance trained males performed resistance training, followed by either 10 min HWI at 40°C or 10 min passive recovery (PAS).

Conclusion: These results suggest that HWI is a viable means of heat therapy to support a greater IMT following resistance training.

***

I read somewhere that hot water soothes muscles and decided to test the theory with my head. The divots on the silver dial made it easy to turn. A stream of water released. First a trickle, then a spray. I ran my finger underneath until it ran from warm to hot. I undressed and stepped in, right foot first. I stood facing away from the showerhead, eyes closed, skin moist, hair drenched. I stood still. The water hit my head like fingers tapping mid thought. My chest bobbed gently up and down to catch the drops as they dribbled down from my chin. My left eye twitches. It pings a sharp signal across. I squeeze the corner of my brow. Something shrieks. I don’t wipe my eyes.

Still gripping my brow, I lean forward, bending at the knee and reach for a comb arms length away. It’s smooth, but not slippery. I run the comb backwards from forehead to nape. The wood is well-oiled, gliding easily across my skull. Its shape is peculiar: five bulbous tips in place of thin bristles that splayed like legs of a critter with swollen feet. It crawled across my head, applying light pressure against every groove, nook and cranny. I was mindful to linger on the grooves which were pleasurably painful to rub. I forgot for a moment why I was standing there, naked.

***

Insatiable, it continues to graze. Salivating at the beak.

***

The ringing alarmed me as I toweled off. I tick-tocked my head left to right a couple times, then palmed the back of my neck in a tight squeeze. The towel crumples silently, as I release both hands. Naked, I hinge at the waist, dragging my torso along with it, slamming into my thighs. My arms dangle lifeless on either side. The tops of my fingernails graze the ground. I grip my big toes between my middle-index knuckles. My feet are still damp, only now a bit cool. Pressure builds first from the back of my head, then to the forehead, then the bridge of my nose. I closed my eyes again, shifting the weight on my feet ever so slightly. Forward. Back. Right. Left.

***

I wanted to see its face so I drew it as best I could. I clenched my fist around the pen and unleashed a fit of rageful back and forth markings. Abrasive strokes that colorblocked the page, nearly tearing the sheet. I traced its movements to the other side, and here, the strokes loosened. The ink let out an unrestricted exhale and the lines drew generously and took up space. I guided the pen back to the other side and circled the block of color. I opened my eyes to meet its gaze. The page stared back at me. Interesting, I note.