The boilier spat scorching steam under the cedar benches, forcing my hanging legs back up to the bench. I slowly slid down the wall farther into the bench, removing the towel from my thighs as I eased down to fashion a pillow under my head. Somebody had covered the harsh yellow light with a couple wet towels.
Being so wasted from my work out, it hurt to just sit up against the back dark corner of the steaming box. The bleached white towel that lazily draped over my thighs was the only image of purity that this bath house would conjure up this evening. The steam room was my sanctuary in the house of pain that most called a gym. It was always hot, wet and ready for me to enter.
