Russian Beauty

“I know it’s one of these,” PP laughs as she searches for her locker. She’s marked the lock on the back with a Victorian Kitty sticker for just these occasions. But this means she has to lift up all the locks and inspect the backs of them.

It’s a little awkward, esp. with an audience.

The audience, a lovely dark haired Russian Beauty, laughs with, not at PP. Already many points in her favor. (The laugh, not the beauty. Though the beauty doesn’t hurt.) And who knows if she’s really Russian. She has a lovely accent that could be Russian. And Russian is so romantic, right? Rachmaninoff? Tolstoy? Tchaikovsky? Siberia…? Okay, not the last one, but you get the drift. It’s not often that one meets a Russian Beauty in the Hilltop YMCA locker room.

“I always take the same one,” RB remarks, smiling sympathetically as PP continues to inspect the backs of locks. PP’s completely spaced out: hungry, tired, relaxed. The usual aftermath of a swim and a sauna.

Which makes remembering where your locker is more of a challenge.

“That’s a really good idea,” PP answers RB, “Wish I’d thought of that…”

“Sometimes this also happens to me with my car,” RB continues, her accent oozing empathy. “I don’t know where I left it in the parking lot. And then I walk out and I can’t find it. It’s very alarming.”

”Oh, yeah, me too!” PP agrees, trying to stifle her frustration at not remembering which locker she’d used. But hey, evidently, it was a good conversation starter.

"Why, I sometimes am sure I know where my car is but since it’s so small and everyone else’s car is so HUGE, I can’t see my car behind these monster cars. And then I think. Oh no! Someone has stolen the Geo!” PP laughs as she continues to lift up lockers. “But who would want to steal a Geo, I ask you?”





RB nods, serious. “You never know. I, too, have had that fear. My car. It is so small. And where is it? What if someone has taken it? Whatever will I do?”

In her Russian Empathy, she’s in the parking lot, trying to find her car. PP can hear it in her voice.

Finally, PP lifts up the Victorian Kitty Locker. “Aha! Here it is!” she exclaims in relief, beginning to dial in the combination.

And with the locker open, now the business of getting dressed. The lotion. The clothes. The shoes. The hair.

RB is also concentrating now, though PP can’t help but steal a peak at her curvy pale thigh as she smoothes the lotion in.



They don't speak again. The crisis over.

PP heads off to dry her hair, and when she returns, RB is gone. Had she really been there at all? Commiserating over lost lockers and stolen cars?

It all seems like a figment of PP’s imagination.

Except for the faint smell of lilacs in the air.

Russian Beauty lotion? (This delights PP on many levels, number 1 being that RB was completely ignoring the posted signage warning):

Please refrain from using Scented Products
in the locker room.
Other Members may be allergic.
This may cause physical distress beyond the YMCA's capacity to help.
The YMCA can not be held responsible.

RB didn’t care if someone keeled over in a coughing fit because of her lilacs.

And this makes her even more Romantic.

Why?

PP has no idea, but it sounds (and smells) good, don’t you think?