The Bathhouse: Part 5

Nonetheless, paradoxes emerge

Continued from The Bathhouse: Part 4

Created by author with Midjourney

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Vlad breathed deeply, as though he might suck in the knowledge stacked around him. The pages beneath his fingers stirred lightly at the warm air blowing from the vents in the ceiling. The thick tomes moored him. Gave him hope. As long as there remained books unread, some scrap of wisdom might be lingering among these shelves that could be his salvation - the solution to the long string of fucked up events that was his life. Here, among the stacks of books, the tang of decades-old paper, the muted scrape of turning pages, he worshipped weekly with a ferocity bordering on zealotry. Except today was different. The words in front of him refused to attach themselves to the page in any meaningful order.

“Nonetheless, paradoxes emerge from the legislative history of Article 15(4) of the 1993 Russian Constitution. Generally-recognized principles and norms of international law are an integral part of the Russian legal system but without a place designated in the hierarchy…”

How many times had he read this fucking paragraph? He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes in frustration, then tried again. “Nonetheless, paradoxes emerge-” Her image filled his mind again, blue eyes wide and brimming with inexplicable trust - the kind of look to melt his horrid heart. He could feel the smoothness of her skin against his hands, the absolutely crushing openness of her, inviting him closer. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Fuck this, he thought. I’ll never get anything done like this.

He needed to clear his head. Apparently, losing himself in these books would not be the antidote to this particular toxin. He snapped the book shut and began collecting his things.

He still didn’t know what had possessed him to take things so far with that girl. Sure, occasionally he’d get a client who wanted more than a massage. They’d catch his wrist as he moved around them, or guide his hands to their breasts with a soft moan, or flutter their eyes at the end of a session and whisper “thank you” before reaching for his hips. Occasionally. Vlad wasn’t one to turn down such advances but, unlike Nikolai, whose questionable methods were infamous among the bathhouse employees, he had never before been the one to instigate them. Until he found himself staring into those soulful eyes. Although it had only lasted a moment, that expression of unfathomable trust made him believe he might truly be deserving of it. Him. Vladimir Baranov, refugee of mistakes wrought by his own poor judgment, a dead man according to some (and good riddance), trusted by a complete stranger. Perhaps what had happened next was inevitable, like the exhalation following a long-held breath, a yang craving yin. With a single look he knew, as if their futures had collapsed into that one moment, that she had already laid herself before him, would do anything he asked, and gladly. She had placed the weight of that trust at his feet like a bloody, beating heart. And one does not refuse such a gesture.

Vlad scrubbed his face with his hands. If the quiet of the library was failing to bring him serenity, he would have to settle for numbness. No problem. This was New York City, after all, the anonymity of a crowd always within reach. He slid his stack of books into his backpack and returned the unborrowed volumes to their shelves, then slung his bag over his shoulders and made his way back to the lobby and into the crisp evening air. Without thinking much about where his feet might take him, he turned left and began walking.

Every step was plagued by thoughts of the girl from the bathhouse. He had never wanted to claim someone like this before, had not even considered what he was doing before he had gathered his seed and pushed it inside her, or what it would mean. He only knew that it was true, and that he had no ability to make it otherwise.