Chapter 2: The Post-Coital Ritual
The waxing salon smelled of honey and antiseptic, a cloying sweetness undercut by the sharp tang of something clinical. Butterfly motifs were everywhere—on the faded wall decals, the aprons of the aestheticians, the plastic cups holding lukewarm water. Angela thought they seemed less like symbols of transformation and more like insects pinned to a board.
Michelle was already in the waiting area, scrolling through her phone. She looked up, her smile a quick, bright flash. “You look like you fought the law and the law won.”
“The law is a patriarchal construct,” Angela said, sliding into the chair beside her. “But yes. It won.”
“We’re fixing that today. Scorched earth policy.” Michelle gestured vaguely toward her own crotch. “Lena’s doing me. She’s new. Cute. Looks like she’d cry if you raised your voice at her.”
A young woman with a severe blonde ponytail appeared. “Angela? Room two.”
The room was small, lit by a single, too-bright lamp. The paper on the table crinkled under her as she lay back. The aesthetician, whose name tag read ‘Sofia,’ had gentle hands and a placid, uninterested expression. She mixed the warm wax in its pot. The procedure was a familiar, brutal intimacy.
“So,” Michelle’s voice carried from the next booth, separated only by a thin partition. “I matched with this guy last night. VP at that new crypto firm. Profile says ‘ethically non-monogamous,’ which we all know is just code for ‘I cheat on my wife with her permission.’”
Angela winced as Sofia applied the first strip. The pain was a bright, clean tear. “The language of consent is often co-opted by patriarchal frameworks to sanitize inequitable power dynamics.”
“Yeah, well, his dynamic is he’s got a dad bod and a black AmEx.” There was a pause, the sound of wax being spread. Michelle let out a soft hiss. “Anyway, we’re chatting and he asks what I’m up to. I tell him I’m getting a Brazilian tomorrow. That it’s always bare. You know what he says?”
“What?” Angela asked, her jaw tight.
“He types, ‘I’ve never been with a woman who does that. My wife doesn’t.’” Michelle’s laugh was a short, percussive sound. “Bingo. That’s the line. They all get hard for the idea of something their wife won’t do. It’s like a fucking cheat code. He’s at the W hotel in two hours. No condom. Said he wanted to ‘claim the territory.’”
Sofia ripped the strip. Angela’s eyes watered. She focused on a butterfly decal on the ceiling, its wings a garish purple.
“It’s a reclamation,” Angela said, the words sounding thin even to her. “Choosing bareness can be an assertion of bodily autonomy. A rejection of the naturalized, patriarchal expectation of female… landscaping.”
From the next booth, there was a long silence. Then Michelle spoke, her voice lower, stripped of its performative glee. “Angie. It’s so the OB-GYN doesn’t have to shave me before the D&C. Again. And so the married guys feel like they’re getting something special. That’s it. No autonomy. Just… practicality.”
The raw honesty was a slap. Angela had nothing to footnote. Sofia worked with efficient, silent speed.
Michelle continued, her tone light again, as if she’d revealed a boring secret. “Besides, it’s cleaner. For the mess. You know how it is.”
Angela did know. The memory of the conference room, the sticky dry on her stomach, the internal leak she’d felt for hours after, surfaced with a nauseating clarity. A citation in her hollow philosophy.
Their procedures finished almost simultaneously. They met at the mirrored vanity, both slightly pale, both moving with that careful, tender gait. The two aestheticians, Lena and Sofia, busied themselves cleaning their stations.
Michelle surveyed her reflection, then hiked her sundress up to her hips, turning to examine the aesthetician’s work in the full-length mirror. “Lena, you’re an artist. A fucking minimalist.”
Lena, the young, wide-eyed technician, blushed furiously, averting her eyes from Michelle’s unabashed display.
Angela watched, a strange envy curdling in her stomach. Michelle’s ease was absolute. There was no narrative, no framework. She was a vessel, polished and empty, and she wore that emptiness like a badge of honor. No justifications. No manifesto. Just a simple, devastating fact: she was built to be used, and the using quieted something inside her that otherwise screamed.
“You don’t ever… think about it more… deeply?” Angela murmured, applying a soothing gel with trembling fingers.
“About what? The why?” Michelle dropped her dress and turned, her eyes meeting Angela’s in the mirror. They were flat, like polished stones. “The why is a black hole, babe. I stopped looking in there. It’s just… physics now. Mass attracts mass. A hole needs to be filled.” She grinned then, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Literally.”
She let out a laugh. It started as a chuckle, then escalated, sharp and barking, a sound that seemed to scrape its way out of her throat. It was jarring, too loud for the soft, butterfly-filled room. Angela found herself joining in, a high, nervous giggle that caught and then twisted into something else, something unhinged. They cackled, leaning on the vanity, their eyes streaming, their freshly ravaged skin protesting.
Lena and Sofia froze, staring at them from across the room, their faces masks of bewildered alarm. The laughter echoed off the tiles, a wet, hollow sound that had nothing to do with joy. It was the sound of a pressure valve blowing, a rupture in the carefully maintained façade.
It died as suddenly as it began. Michelle wiped her eyes, smudging her mascara. “God, I needed that. Okay. I’m gonna go let my crypto VP plant his flag. You good?”
Angela nodded, catching her breath, the ghost of the awful laughter still haunting her throat. “Yeah. I’m good.”
They paid, leaving a generous tip that did nothing to erase the unsettled look in the young workers’ eyes. Outside, the afternoon sun was obscenely bright.
“Remember,” Michelle said, sliding her sunglasses on, her smile back in its perfect, vacant place. “A reset. Now we’re both clean slates.”
She walked away, a tiny figure in a bright dress, heading toward another hotel, another transaction. Angela stood on the sidewalk, the tender, burning skin between her legs feeling not clean, but raw and exposed. A blank page, yes. But she had nothing left to write on it except the same old stories, in smudged, running ink.
But she had nothing left to write on it except the same old stories, in smudged, running ink. Michelle’s Uber idled at the curb, a grey metal cocoon. She slid in, the fresh wax stinging pleasantly against the cool leather seat. “The W, please.”
The hotel room was a monument to generic luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a postcard view of the city, but the air smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and distant cigarette smoke from a lower floor. He was already there, as promised: mid-forties, the softness of his stomach straining a too-tight polo shirt, his phone in his hand.
“You’re Michelle.” It wasn’t a question. His eyes scanned her, head to toe, a quick asset assessment.
“And you’re a VP who likes bare skin.” She dropped her purse on a chair, the sound sharp in the quiet. “Let’s skip the champagne fantasy. I’m on the clock.”
He blinked, then chuckled, a nervous, grating sound. “Direct. I like that.”
She didn’t answer. She walked to the bed, peeled her sundress off in one fluid motion, and lay back against the stiff duvet. The ceiling was white, textured. She focused on a small flaw in the plaster. He fumbled with his belt, his breathing already audible. The mattress dipped under his weight.
“My wife would never—” he began, hovering over her.
“I know,” Michelle interrupted, her voice flat. She guided him in. It was a simple, mechanical fit. “Don’t talk about your wife.”
It was over in minutes. He grunted, a strained, effortful sound, his face buried in the hotel pillow. She felt the hot, internal spasm, the familiar flood. He collapsed beside her, a sheen of sweat on his temple. “Christ. That was…”
“Yeah.” She sat up, swung her legs off the bed. A trickle traced a warm path down her inner thigh. She reached for her dress.
“You’re not staying?” He propped himself up on an elbow, looking bewildered, almost wounded.
“For what?” She stepped into her dress, pulled it up. The fabric felt coarse against her sensitive skin. “The transaction is complete. You claimed the territory. Feel powerful?”
He stared, his post-coital haze evaporating into confusion. She found her underwear, balled it into her purse. She wouldn’t need them.
“You’re different,” he said, the line falling from his lips automatically, pathetically.
Michelle stopped at the door, hand on the knob. She looked back, a cold, empty smile on her face. “I’m really not.” The click of the door behind her was final.
In the elevator, she felt the slow leak. She pressed a hand low against her abdomen, a pointless containment. The hollow quiet inside her was absolute, a perfect vacuum. For a few minutes, the screaming void had been stuffed full, muffled by a stranger’s biology. Now there was only the descent, the clean, polished silence, and the faint, fading warmth between her legs. She walked through the glittering lobby, a tiny, empty vessel, already thinking of nothing at all.