i remember a tiny notebook i brought into the steam room once in a while, now wavy to the extreme end, shaped and stretched by humidity and then preserved by dryness.
months later i decided to read the rule board of the steam room attached to the entry door for the first time, and i realized bringing in papers was not allowed.



“there are no faces in the steam room.”
only figures. trapped between levitating water drops, a face is a minor feature that got lost in the hazy fog of steam. the fog gave a manipulative effect to the yellow light, making it seem like a dying sun. the only identity left is that of navels and pubic hairs. and limbs. and nipples.”
outside the steam room, everything walks in fast pace. such pace that left you in isolation from the whole world and yourself. the pace will run over you, bulldoze you, kill you and leave you numb as it has no time to recollect you anymore. your faces become my enemy. your attire become an impossible standard that started my lies and self-abundance. and so we are a society of faces and labels stitched on the inner line of our clothes.”
steam room becomes my only moment of solace. far from the gym, where we strive to kill imperfections. from the locker room, where we showcase how we killed flaws. but we undress and we take a shower, washing away all the things that make us, and step into the steam room and become strangers to ourselves.”
in the steam i am dark nipples and heart-shaped pubes. i have no friend in the steam room, yet i observe every visitor and soon found schedule mates. they are pink nipples, abnormally large nipples, and pointy nipples.”
pink nipples, abnormally large nipples and i shared our first steam room session together. the steam machine was broken at that time. there were only dews sticking on the ceiling and a hint of heat. we dared not take our towels off. the two women before me were both a little older than i was, one stocky and short-limbed, the other tall with a clean hollywood pubic hair, or lack of. from then on, i always see them together in the steam room. they come in together, usually before me, and i left in midst of their conversation. they talk about their children, office work, husbands’ affairs. they wear panties into the steam room even though it is clearly stated otherwise is expected on the door. pink nipples is presumably younger and abnormally large nipples sounds like she enjoys dictating her. their conversations agitate me but i sit trough every time.”
on other times i meet pointy nipples in the steam room. she seems to enjoy silence. i always found her during low-occupancy time at the gym, like before sunrise, during lunchtime or after dinner on weekends. she always steps in already fully naked, with no inhibition at all. if she comes in before me, her towel would be about fifty centimeters away from her hands. her breasts are small but her nipples are extremely pointy, so asserted that i feel they talk to me and stare at me. pointy nipples never seem to trim her pubic hair, and they grow wilder and wilder each time i see her.”
she brings an olive-scented oil which she smears all over her body and injects the whole room with the taste of olive. there are days when i stand near the steam room and taste olive vaguely in my tongue and nostrils, pointy nipples must be smothering herself inside, and i would somehow come in, even when i’ve showered. inside, we never talk, but the texture of her skin is so familiar i’ve read her whole life story without speaking. she and the crème-colored mozaic tiles are perpetually blending in, but they never obscure her. a certain poise she possesses, it exudes a humane truth trough her nakedness and leaves me to see clearly in a pool of humid clouds. i would hit her unintentionally with my towel and she would leave a greasy trace of oil on the seats, but there would never be a lie here.”
there’s nothing there but the truth. everything else is blurred. elsewhere, where the air is clear, only the truth looks like steam. blurred, grayed, and impartable from lies and made-up stories. my pointed nipple friend and i both get up and wrap ourselves with towels. and then we step out of the steam room. i don’t recognize her face. i only taste olive, vaguely.”


now i am no longer steam room mate. i am sauna room girl. as fat and retained water have chiseled my limbs in ways i could never seemingly undo by fitness training, i decided to just forget about it altogether and show everyone my stretch marks.