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Rated: E · Short Story · News · #2279806
Okay, Writer's Cramp, I like this news headline prompt. What could it imply?
         I squeezed out the heavy door. Every nerve ending tingled. My muscles, loose and relaxed, quivered with the effort. So, this is what the masseuse referred to as post-massage malaise. I'm a wobbly, wet noodle.
         Something pulls me back as I argue with my sleeping feet to propel me forward. Oh, a corner of my towel is clamped in the door frame. Whew, I'm as week as a kitten, yet I'd been purring earlier. Twenty-two minutes of kneading later and I struggle to tug myself free.
         With my flip-flop feet braced against the unyielding door, my teeth clenched and my elbows askew, I tremble. I grunt. Heave ho.
         Tucking the wayward corner back into the folds of the towel wrapped 'round my torso I stumble. Oof. Ouch.
         I glance up to meet a scowl perched atop a sturdy, starched-uniform girded body. I note the crinkle and the cool stiffness. My startled gaze follows the silent glare to a dripping mop. I grasp and twist the scant material between us.
         I offer a tight smile and a brief nod as an apology. I make eye contact while I point down the corridor. It's a nervous reflex, but I shrug my question. In reply I'm sent a firm shake of the head bolstered by the no-nonsense crossing of arms. A shoe drums a warning echoed from a pail of soapy water.
         Ah, the floor shimmers with a damp sheen. I've interrupted work in progress. While I'd indulged in a massage this woman had been cleaning up after me. I squirm, pinned by her unblinking stare.
         I sigh, lift my chin and square my shoulders. Surely I could navigate my way free of this obstacle. The Nike slogan reverberates in my brain, just do it. Don't overthink it.
         With one hand clutching my towel and the other flapping at the end of a pumping arm I willed my other limbs to launch us up in the air and over the still slick floor. Like too many of my hasty decisions the abort signal screamed too late.
         In slow motion, I succumbed to the power of gravity. A moan forced its ragged way past my lips as I crashed with a bone-jarring whump. For a numbing moment I could not breathe or feel. I scrabbled in a slip and slide.
         All the massage magic evaporated replaced with blossoming bruises.
         Gasping, my mortality looming large, I cringe at the inevitable news headline: Jumper Dies In Spa Spill.( 412 words)
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