Dear Pepe,

The first thing she noticed when they crossed the border was a thick fringe of fir trees along the horizon that served as a backdrop for one lone oak tree.

The tree was stripped are, her every fault visible without her robe of green chiffon tied tight under her chin and the large hood thrown over her head. Her scarred torso and the thickness of her once slim arms weighted down at the wrist by the bulk of her hands with their twisted knuckles, mangled and arthritic.

At the speed they were driving she had but a glimpse of that tree, but it had been enough to stick to her mind as a transient memory, like a silly string to the nozzle or an al dente strand of spaghetti to the celing. When the memory lost its grip, it fell to the floor and was discarded.

As they drove on the hills swelled up and at them. The road spiraled like they weren't climbing up a mountain at all, but going around and around the layers of a cake. At the top they got out of the car and stood at the very tip-top, arm in arm, like statues on a wedding cake.

The earth had been finely chiseled away to form a valley with dull roofed houses sprinkled against the blazing green grass. They looked as if they might topple over at any moment into that waiting crespice of a mouth to dissolve like candies on the brown dirt tongue.

Their hair. Their face. Every bit of bone and flesh ravaged by the wind. They were conent to just stand there and take the abuse until rain threatened them from overhead and they climbed back into the car less their hair get wet. Afterall, they hadn't packed the right clothes for this type of weather.

She had made a list, checked off every item and put it right into either the bag marked HIS or the one marked HERS. The list made perfect sense to her, but now they couldn't seem to find anything no matter how they dug that would keep them warm. So they drove down the mountain slowly and cautiously with the heat on full blast until the chill that had crept into them crept back out.

They were silent as they warmed up until finally she admitted there was just no evicting this stubborn type of cold and that they should just go to one of the hot springs in the area. They pulled into the parking lot and when she found her bathing suit it was surrounded by high heels and skirts and stockings. She had never gone north for the winter before. She was a migratory creature. She had enough sense to know that when it got that damn cold you headed south. But he had wanted an adventure, so she thrw on her fur and tucked her expectations into one of the silk-lined pockets. He could never say she wasn't accomodating.

In the lobby they were directed to a large flat screen television where they watched people be pampered with rose petals as joyfully as the ones being slapped on the back with birch branches. In the end he opted for as much violence as air bubbles could muster up in the whirlpool and she decided it'd be lovely to be rubbed with honey and salt like a Sunday dinner ham.

When the time came for her scrub she was embarassed by the need for complete nudity until the woman's hands slipped from scrubbing her shoulders and into the cleft between her two buttocks. The woman lifted each of them, one by one, and scrubbed with nearly the same motion and interest as a housewife vacuuming under the sofa cushions.

Now there was something other than being naked with strangers on her mind. There was salt and honey oozing in places they just shouldn't. For someone who had never even worn a pair of thong underwear it was a lot to think about.

She wasn't a prude. She wasn't modest. She wasn't ashamed of what age had done to her body. She was ashamed of what she had done to her body.