For the next hour—or perhaps a day, or a week—Monique worked in silence. She found the tension in my jaw that belonged to unspoken arguments with Derek. The knot in my lower back from hunching over a laptop, trying to be small. The tightness in my chest that I had mistaken for ambition but was actually, purely, fear.
I followed.
She led me through a corridor that seemed to stretch and contract with my breathing. On the walls hung portraits—not of people, but of emotions. I saw a painting of Anxiety: a woman holding an hourglass full of screams. Another of Grief: a child drowning in a teacup. Another of Anger: a bonfire wearing a suit. monique-s secret spa- part 1
Each item dissolved into the water without a ripple. And with each loss, I felt lighter. Not happier. Lighter. There is a difference. For the next hour—or perhaps a day, or
At some point, I wept. Not the weep of sadness or joy. The weep of a dam breaking. Salt tears soaking into the stone table. Monique did not shush me. She did not hand me a tissue. She simply continued her slow, sacred work, humming a melody I felt in my bones. The tightness in my chest that I had
I stood up, walked to the window, and looked out. I was back on Rosewood Lane. My street. My apartment building was visible in the distance. I had been gone, according to my dead phone, exactly one hour.
And the smell.