The room beyond was a perfect cube, about fifteen feet in each direction. The floor was black slate. The ceiling was mirrored. In the center of the room was a table that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of petrified wood. There were no machines. No massage tables. No jars of lotion.
I opened my mouth to give a clever answer— “That I need more sleep” or “That I eat stale goldfish from the car floor” —but instead, something else came out: Monique--39-s Secret Spa- Part 1
She drew an address on a scrap of prescription paper. It wasn't on a main road. It wasn't even in the Quarter proper. It was in the liminal space between the Marigny and the Bywater, a neighborhood of crumbling Greek Revival townhouses and feral cats. The room beyond was a perfect cube, about
End of Part 1.
There is a specific kind of magic that happens when you turn 39. In the center of the room was a
