Indoor Pool

The enclosed pool area is delineated from the hotel lobby by a set of four French doors.  Cherry wood framed panes of glass stretch for twenty feet, giving anyone interested a view of the interior space.  The heavy doors and thick glass keep a tight seal on the warm, contained moist air and the heavy chlorinated smell that is all pervasive, air that seems more tangible and easier to grab. 
The indoor pool is enclosed on all sides.  Above it is a solid ceiling thirty feet high painted in pastel tones.  The ceiling gives way to large squares of glass that taper at a 15 degree angle towards the ground, creating the greenhouse heat and light that pervades the room.
Immediately inside the French doors is a cement walkway that is three feet wide.  It leads up to the cement lip of the pool and continues around the hard right angles on all four sides. The cement is wet and cool, an intense contrast from the humidity in the air.  Along the walkway, spaced at uneven intervals, are plastic white lawn chairs, some with gray scratches on the legs and back.  One of the chairs has a pile of three folded blue and white striped beach towels on the seat, another has a used looking towel draped over its back.
The pool is long, designed for laps and swimming caps. On one end, in the corner, are three steps.  On the other end are two metal bars and embedded steps in the underwater wall.  There are three lights on in the pool, they illuminate the painted blue sides and bottom, creating the illusion of yellowish-green water.  Steam rises from the surface, dancing, twirling gently as it disperses into the thick air of the enclosed space.
Behind the pool are two Jacuzzi. Empty, they gurgle wildly from the mighty force of their underwater jets.  Heat leaps from the roaring water, twisting violently into the cooler air it meets above the surface. White and ice-blue colored water bubbles over the smooth cement sides of the hot tubs, spreading out onto the already wet cement floor beyond its walls.
Between the two Jacuzzi is a narrow walkway that slopes upward at a 10 degree angle.  Fifteen feet long, it leads to a long narrow room with glass walls on all sides. There is a row of running machines, stair climbers, weight benches, and free weights.  Each piece of equipment is lined up, facing the side-street. A lone woman in tight lycra pants and a long red baggy t-shirt is on the stairmaster, moving at a steady rhythm as she reads a magazine spread open before her. 
Parallel to the narrower ends of the pool are two tall walls that face each other like mirrors.  At their base is a ledge of tropical plants with wide bright shiny green leaves and pungent soil.  Behind the plants, stretching five feet up is a checkerboard pattern of pink and blue tiles.  They reflect the diffused afternoon light coming through the glass ceiling.  Where the tiles end, a mural begins.  It is a beach scene painted in pastel colors.  There is a bright sun, an ocean in the distance, and three bright pink flamingoes in the foreground.  The image is mirrored on both walls.
Posted on several walls beside the pool are signs saying, “NO Diving” and “USE at your own risk.”

The Artist

The artist is leaning back, the paintbrush poised delicately between the fingers of an upraised hand. The brush is long and slender, a light wooden wand with blond bristles. Her fingernails are long and surprisingly clean, white tipped. Her smile radiates not only from her parted lips that reveal white teeth and the pink inside of her mouth, but also, more prominently, that smile shines in her glittering black eyes. She wears an apron decorated with pink roses over a black tank top. The table is covered with clean newspapers. There is not a stray splash of paint to be seen. The canvass standing on the table top over the support of a small easel is already halfway covered with paint. The emerging scene is a larger replication of a scene depicted on a small note pad that rests on the table top just below the canvass. Both are representations of little wooden dolls like the one that can barely be seen peeping around the edge of the canvas. Only its round pink cheek and wide almond shaped eye are visible along with the wave of visible hair that frames her face and the white cap that tops it. The eyes of the little doll and of the drawn doll and painted doll are all big eyes, dark in the center like the painter’s shiny black eyes. They are all replicas of the original, with her pink cheek and wave of dark hair crowning her head. The careful reproductions are all copies, a copy of a copy of a copy of a woman. A woman with high arched brows and pink lips and flowers on her clothes. A woman who makes things with her hands and knows the secret of making things and smiles with the knowledge of it. A goddess that has unraveled the secret of creation and does it so carefully, so painstakingly, that not a single line goes stray, that not one petite droplet of color falls wasted on the workspace or smeared on a hand or cheek. Even the brush is clean, as if the painting is being produced with nothing more than a carefully concentrated attention that burns the image upon the canvass at the painter’s will. Another pair of clean brushes can be seen poking out of a can, their bristles pointing upward just above the head of the small wooden doll that remains partially concealed by the canvass. Everything is clean. Every line is in place. And the artist beams with the joy of creation.

Powder Room

An archway leads from the main chamber to the bath and powder room. Just beyond its semi elliptical frown, the mirror shimmers, reflecting the world it can see, perfectly inverted. Around its edges, titian and cream colored seashells are arranged, framing the view. A large starfish adorns the counter, flanked on both sides by more ruffled seashells. Its top is void of cosmetics. Only a silver handled comb and hair brush lie waiting, attended by a row of empty perfume bottles fashioned of crystal and Egyptian glass. A velvet upholstered antique stool adds it’s own flourish to the baroque powder room. It is invitingly large, it’s fawn colored cushion, rectangular in shape, suggests that more than one lady could sit here if necessary. The cast iron legs bow flamboyantly, looking as if they wish to clearly demonstrate that they have held the weight of elegant women for at least the last hundred years. The bath is beside the powder room, through another open doorway. There is a Roman air about it, not only because it is larger than necessary for a solitary bather, but also because of the manner in which it is set in the floor, in the center of the room. The tiles are all white with blue designs like Dutch delftware. There are steps built inside the bath, like the steps of a swimming pool. They extend around the entire perimeter of the bath, which, like the stool and mirror in the powder room, is rectangular. The entire space seems to be designed for lounging both in and out of the bath. Tile settees are positioned with the walls as backings. Fresh towels and white terry cloth robes hang plentifully from ornate hooks on the walls. An additional surplus is folded and stacked on one of the four settees. They have been carefully laundered so that they are soft and springy to the touch and smell of unscented detergent. In the main chamber, the carpet is a pearly mocha shag which extends into the powder room. There are a pair of complimentary dressers, one tall and one short, both simple and unassuming in appearance. Fashioned of a dark stained wood they rest against their respective walls hugging their empty drawers and looking important. The short one is wider and supports a mirror. Strings of glass beads hang from the mirrors corners, (it too is rectangular). Both dressers are home to doilies, books of pressed flowers, and decoratively placed pearls. An antique crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling catching the light and transforming it into glittering butterflies. It’s lead crystals are amber hued. The bed is big and well dressed in a subtle paisley and tone-on-tone diamond jacquard comforter peeled back to reveal Egyptian cotton sheets. The thread count is high enough that they shine like ivory satin. In their tangled midst, nestled among the strewn pillows, two figures negotiate their positions in relation to one another. The man is both muscular and pudgy with the strength of a wrestler. His sandy colored hair has been buzz cut so that the rolls of flesh at the nape of his neck are visible when he moves his head. His buttocks appear to be a little flat and a long lions tale extends from above the crack. Completely nude, he alters his position as coerced by the woman who motivates him by rubbing between his legs until she can hold his erect penis in her hand and stroke it. The long blond hair cascading over her shoulders teases his skin. The bright red lipstick painted on her supple lips contrasts with the lavender corset and thong that squeezes her breasts to attention while leaving her soft rear exposed. Their negotiations are difficult and quarrelsome. A steel sword rests against the bedside, it’s point sinking into the shag.