The rooftop of my family’s hotel in Flushing is a hot spring SPA. I’m lying in one of the tubs covered in volcano stones while looking down at the city. Fresh hot water is flowing through a tunnel beside me then dropping into the tub like a mini waterfall with steam arising. It’s winter, the second week of December. Through the window, I can see the snow yesterday melting by the edge of the walkway beneath, turning into these dark polluted puddles which will freeze back into ice overnight, while the skyscrapers of Manhattan are sitting on the far horizon. Only wearing a pair of orange swim trunks, I feel the water is slightly overheated. My brother was laughing at me earlier that I was too shy to be naked which is, as he claimed, the authentic way of having a hot spring bath. I think I’m just uncomfortable, since it’s my first time being in a Chinese SPA. Other guests of the hotel, a lot of them being Chinese tourists, are walking around, getting in and out of tubs, but, thankfully, it seems that no one wants to share the one with me. I’m also uncomfortable being around other naked men, but I have to admit that the bath feels exceptionally good, especially in winter. The rhythmic sound of the waterfall is meditative that takes me out of all the concerns I have at the moment. 

“Maomao!” I hear my brother calling my Chinese nickname from behind. I turn around and see him walking toward me with a big smile on his face. The only cloth attached to his body is a towel hanging around his waist, while his chest, armpits, six-packs and legs are all in the open space. A scar with the marks of stitches can be seen on his right upper arm. I never asked him where it came from. His skin has a special pinkish radiance to it that must come from the sauna he just finished. With the same parents and only four years older than me, he and I are totally different from each other. Our dad, who only knows small bits and pieces of ancient greek mythology likes to call us his “Paris” and “Hector,” although he never read an

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actual word from the Iliad. At the same time, I can’t really blame him. As a Chinese businessman who started from nothing, he needs the respect and the appearance of being more educated than he is. It’s the same reason why he hired a coach to correct his English accent and has to go to these charity dinners and art auctions. 

My brother presses my shoulders with force and says, “Having a good time?” “Yeah, I like it here.” I say. 

“Good,” he says, “but don’t just lie in there the whole time. There are many other services in our SPA.” 

“Eh, I don’t know….” 

“How about a massage?” He cuts me off and says, “Here’s the best masseuse of our hotel, even the best in Flushing I would say.” 

Only now I notice that a woman is standing behind him dressing in her staff uniform. I’m shocked by the fact that she is here around all the naked men, and she is not one of these older women in their 50s I have seen before but surprisingly young. She seems about the same age as my brother. I look around, but nobody else including her seems to mind. I guess this must be considered normal around here. 

“Her name is Min.” My brother puts his hand on her back to bring her forward. Min smiles at me and says, “Hello, the little brother.” 

She looks at me in a strange pampering way. I stand up from the water. My face is already blushed because of the hot water, and now I think the color has just become more extreme. 

“Take good care of him, okay?” My brother laughs and says, “It’ll be fun for you two to get to know each other.”

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“Hey, I don’t need anyone for that.” I say. 

“Sure.” He is walking away and waving goodbye at me. 

Now as I think of my dad’s “Paris” and “Hector” metaphor again, I wonder why not “Achilles” and “Patroclus?” At least, they were on the winning side. Maybe he doesn’t know. Wait, nevermind, I guess they died at the end too. Actually, most siblings in literature have a bad ending: Cain and Abel, Eteocles and Polynices, Romulus and Remus, Edgar and Edmund, etc. Somehow people always expect conflicts and rivalry between two brothers. Anyway, I’m left alone with Min, the masseuse. We look at each other in silence. 

“Let me take you to the massage room,” she says, “I’ll give you a massage.” “Nah,” I shake my head and say, “I think I’ll pass.” 

“Why not?” She says. 

“I’m just not comfortable doing it.” I say. 

Suddenly she starts to laugh covering her mouth and bending her upper body. I have no idea what it is about. By this time, I begin to pick up an accent of her Chinese, but I can’t quite place it yet. 

“It’s exactly like your brother told me.” She says. 

“What?” I ask. 

“That you’re never comfortable.” She goes back to laughing again. I hate how he always exposes me to other people around him. 

She finally stops and says, “So, are you comfortable this time or not?” 

“Okay, fine.” I sigh and shrug. 

I step out of the tub, and she hands me a tower. I use it to dry up then hang it around my shoulders to cover my entire upper body, but my swim trunks are still wet, dripping water on the

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floor. I guess he does have a point against wearing it. Seeing that I’m ready, she turns around and starts to lead the way across the SPA. I follow her and try not to be awkward and avoid setting my gaze on anyone. Again, nobody seems to mind. 

The massage room is close by, just downstairs next to the sauna room. There is a Chinese label on the door that reads: 按摩室VIP. As Min is opening the door, I look down the hallway. On the side are some plants and branches of bamboo placed in Chinese porcelain vases, and, at the end is the men’s locker room where I changed and put away my belongings. My mind can’t help but to wonder that on the other side of this floor, through the women’s locker room, there is an identical set of facilities with SPA, sauna and massage for women as well, maybe even more services for hair or nails. Just think how massive this place is. And I guess the women there would be naked too. Imagine that. I feel my heart is already beating faster. “What are you thinking?” She asks while getting into the room. 

“Nothing, why?” I know she knows what the women’s side is like, but I don’t want to be revealing and expose my desire. It would probably sound creepy anyway, right before she is giving me a massage. 

She smiles and says, “You just seem pretty excited.” 

“Yeah,” I say, “I never tried this before.” 

As we step into the room, I notice that its setting is surprisingly simple: a white leather massage table at the center with a hole at its head like a toilet seat, a set of slightly greyish fabric possibly linen sofas on the side and shelves containing various equipment, bottles of lotions and oil including a set of glass cups for the vacuum therapy. It looks almost too tidy and clean, giving me the vibe of an operation room. By the way, I’ve never actually been in an operation room. The closest thing is going to the dentist.

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She goes over to the shelves, picks up some bottles, then looks at me and says, “You might want to take off your swim trunks. It will get the massage table wet.” Did she just ask me to take off my pants? In front of her? Am I hearing this right? Seeing no reaction from me, she shakes her head and says, “Look, it’s not a big deal. You can just tie the tower around your waist first then take it off underneath.” 

“Plus,” she adds, “I’m used to it. I’ve seen and touched all male and female body types.” Not sure if her argument is convincing or not, but I follow her suggestion and take off my swim trunks. I wonder what it is like, getting to touch all body types. She takes the piece of orange fabric from me and hangs it over the shelf, then she asks me to lie face down on the massage table which makes me realize that the hole is for holding my face. Staring at the reflection on the marble floor, I find myself in a strange position. 

“So,” I ask, “where are you going to massage me?” 

“The whole body, of course.” She says. 

I take a deep breath. 

“Hey, relax,” she pats on my back and says, “You look like you’re getting a punishment or something. You’re here to enjoy a service, okay?” 

I do feel much better, not because of her words but her hand. It’s not cold as I was expecting but warm. Similar but also different from the hot spring, the feeling comes from another person, yet, as if it’s a part of my own body. Her presence for me transforms into a voice and a sensation of her hands on my body. 

She starts spreading oil while saying, “A massage is good for you. It helps with relaxing your muscles.”

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I get to recognize her Chinese accent. She must come from Fujian. This is a small victory and accomplishment from our interactions so far. 

“Well,” I don’t want to point that out just yet and say, “I don’t have many muscles.” I hear her giggle and say, “Right, you’re quite boney. ” 

Suddenly she pinches the gap between my ribs which makes me shudder. 

She doesn’t say anything. Her hands return to the normal movements. My brother likes doing that too. He claims that he knows where my softest rib is, but I’m not sure that is scientific. As time passes, my breath becomes even, and I close my eyes. My body slowly accepts this interaction and is no longer conscious of it. It’s like, in a classical music concert, at the beginning you are aware of the musicians, maybe even their shoes or bowties, but later you’re just listening to the music itself. One time, in elementary school, I was at home alone with my mom. It was close to summer. I remember I had a fever that day and was resting at home. On the bed, my mom let me rest my head on her lap. She was gently petting my hair and humming a Chinese song that I forgot the name of. I could hear the birds singing on the branches outside. The wind was shuffling the curtain back and forth, while the sunlight was shining on my face through the window. Although the fever made me feel dizzy, it was one of the happiest moments of my life. I felt so close, so close to her. 

“Maomao?” Her voice pulls me back to the present. 

I raise my head and find her looking at me again in that pampering way. 

“You know,” she smiles and says, “you just called me mom.” 

I sit up from the table and don’t know exactly what to do or say about it. Why brought it up? Can’t she keep it to herself? That would be a beautiful moment for both of us. Instead, my happiness has just been interrupted.

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She goes to wipe her hands in a tower and says, “I was nice not taking out my phone and sending it to your brother.” 

“Can you stop calling me ‘Maomao’?” I finally manage to say. 

“Why not?” 

“It’s only used between the family.” As I’m thinking of it, my mom doesn’t call me anything, since we are mostly alone with each other, and my dad now just calls me “son,” so it’s really just my brother still using the same nickname since childhood back in China. 

“You know,” she says after putting everything away, “why don’t we do something that you actually want? Instead of just being reluctant?” 

That does sound tempting, since my visit so far has been under the arrangement of my dad and my brother. Also, I have to admit that talking with her is surprisingly enjoyable, more than some of my classmates or the so-called “elites” and “family friends” at the dining table. 

“Then I’d like to take a tour of Flushing,” I say, “to see what it’s like outside of this hotel.” 

Although it’s my first time visiting here, I know I might come here more frequently during the next four years of my life. 

While she seems to be thinking about my proposal, I start to move around the joints of my body. After the massage, I feel my body is getting less in the way that the tips of my fingers can now reach my toes. 

“Sure, let’s change our clothes and go,” she smiles and says. 

“It’s your idea right?” She adds. 

I nod knowing what she means. At the same time, I’m glad that I get to walk out of this room and hotel. If alone, I might not act upon my wish.

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Looking at my reflection in the mirror while putting on layers of clothes reminds me that it’s still winter. Hard to believe but I’m almost used to the almost nakedness. It’s like at the beach or on a boat where people are really just wearing bras and underwear. With the shirt, sweater and puffer jacket, I feel my volume almost doubled and a lot heavier but also a lot more at ease, since now I can move however I want, no longer need to worry about being awkward. This is not including my other belongings such as my watch, phone, wallet, earbuds and a small pack of tissue. They belong to me, sure, but they are not me, yet I can’t live without them; I would freeze to death on the street. I need these imprinted numbers on the credit card. They live off of me, off of my desires. I guess this might be how Adam felt, when he covered himself in figleaves. 

Through the elevator, I get to the lobby on the ground floor and wait for her. I know it usually takes longer. Since the indoor temperature is still pretty warm, I take off my jacket. Some of the artworks my dad collected are displayed on the walls of the lobby which created a certain level of fame in the area. I notice that some of the people come in just for the exhibition. I guess that’s generous of him and a good marketing strategy. 

Min walks out of the elevator and looks so different that I almost don’t recognize her. Out of her uniform, with her hair down, she has changed into her winter outfit as well. A hood with white fur attached is hanging on the back of her winter jacket. There is no way to tell that she works here as a masseuse. It’s certainly a relief, for I always resent this sort of professionalism. 

“Ready, Vincent?” She smiles at me and says, “That’s your English name right?” I nod. My brother must’ve told her that too. 

Then we shake hands. Her hand feels different, when my hand is touching it. It’s like we are meeting each other again, for the first time.

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Other than the chilness, the first thing that gets my attention, when I walk out of the hotel, is a commercial jet hovering over my head with its engine booming. I know it’s a fair distance away, but still it looks huge as if barely getting through the tops of the buildings. Even though I understand the theory behind it, such heavy machinery moving in the air in this proximity just seems like a miracle. I wonder how a man from antiquity would react to this. Ovid? Horace? What verses would he write? 

“It’s landing at Laguardia.” She looks at me and says. 

Then she adds, “You have a lot of thoughts in your head, isn’t it?” 

I don’t find any sarcasm in her voice this time. 

“Yeah, I suppose.” I say while looking at the white vapor coming out of my mouth. “You know,” she smiles and says, “this is not what I had imagined. Your brother told me that you are popular among the girls at your high school.” 

“I can see how that could be misleading,” I raise my eyebrows and say, “I don’t know why, but there are girls who are interested in guys who are skinny, pale, melancholic and introspective like Timothée Chalamet.” 

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” she places her finger at her chin and says, “but who’s Timothée Chalamet?” 

“Nevermind.” I wonder maybe it was the same character Helen saw from Paris that let her take the leap across the sea. 

I continue to look around at the street in front of me. It’s almost sunset, and the clouds at the horizon are painted in a style that splits half and half between Sterling and Matisse. Under the canvas, the street almost looks exactly like a small town in China. Most signs of the stores are written in Chinese including our own “太子” which means “prince,” and most pedestrians on the

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street look like Chinese people too. It gives me the feeling of visiting Tokyo, also a forigen land with the resemblance of home. Actually I guess I’m technically not in a forigen land anymore. My U.S citizenship got through right before my college application started. “I’m kind of hungary.” I say, “Do you want to get something to eat?” 

“Sure, me too. I know a food court close by,” she says. 

Then she adds, “By the way, it was my lunch break, giving you a massage.” “Sorry, my bad.” I laugh, and we start walking. 

“You know,” she says, “I was like you, when I was younger back in China.” “Really, I’m interested,” I say, “you haven’t told me much about you.” 

After a slight pause, she looks at the ground and says, “Well, there isn’t much to say. Nothing like you, I grew up in a small village, backwater.” 

“In Fujian, right?” I say. 

She turns to me and says, “Okay, still pretty sharp in Chinese huh?” 

“Yeah, I’m trying to keep up with all the culture and trends,” I say while hoping that she is not offended. Perhaps she was hiding the accent. 

Recently, I started to notice that my writing in Chinese is fading away. I forgot how certain Chinese characters are written. My merely elementary education there is not solid enough. 

“You might’ve heard of the things there,” She sighs and says, “but I’m the older sister, and everything of my family goes to my little brother, leaving me alone with my thoughts and chores. He is the golden child who will carry the family name, while I’m just a girl who is going to be married off to someone else. So, I left them, dropped out of school and came here.”

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I nod. Usually when I hear people talk about themselves, I’ll feel either good about myself or jealous, but this time it’s different. I suppose my dad splitted more evenly between me and my brother. I got my mom, the house and private school, while my brother got him, the city and business. But still, I understand her. 

We remain silent for a while just trolling down the sidewalk. The sun continues to fall, while the temperature is fleeing from the air. After the spiel, she seems out of it and barely pays attention to the surroundings. A couple of times she runs into other people. Maybe it’s her turn to feel uncomfortable now. We get to an intersection with the traffic still running, but she doesn’t seem to look at all and keeps stepping forward. I reach out my hand and stop her. “Hey, are you alright?” I say, feeling a shiver in her body. 

She seems to realize what happened and says, “I’m so sorry.” 

We stand facing each other at the interaction, as the vapor of our breath rises and vanishes into the air. The street is crowded at this rush hour. Pedestrians are passing by touching our shoulders. Cars drive through splashing their headlights on our pale faces. 

“Maomao,” she says in a way that I can hardly hear her, “I loved him. He was cute. I watched him growing up. But now, he doesn’t even recognize me anymore.” After taking a few breaths, she continues, “I’m just a service, a machine. Only your brother sometimes talks to me about you.” 

“But do you actually care?” She asks, before I can respond in a louder voice, “Or are you just enjoying your own thoughts from a distance? Is this all an experience?” Before my parents were separated, before my family moved to America, before everything happened, my brother probably remembers better, but my dad used to be a supplier for the luxury hotels and restaurants in Hongkong. He drove a little truck across the border

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everyday, and my mom was helping him with the phone calls and the book. In my memory, it was always summer. On the weekends, he would take us to the beach and play with me and my brother. The sand was soft, and the water was cool. It was where he taught me how to swim. We took long walks by the coast. When I was tired, he and my brother would take turns carrying me on their backs. Things certainly changed from then, but are we better now? 

“I hate it too,” I say, “how everyone changes, turning into something else.” “Are we going to see each other again?” She looks at me. 

Meanwhile, a sharp soreness rushes into my nose. 

I nod and say, “I’m going to college here. I’ll come visit you.” 

“Not for a massage I hope.” She smiles and kicks at a pile of snow. 

I laugh while shaking my head, as if I’ve just been pranked. She’s just….I don’t know what to say. 

The night has fallen in Flushing, the little Chinatown in America. The yellow street lights make it seem just like a dark cloak hanging over our heads. We cross the intersection and continue walking forward. We seem to forget the original purpose but simply enjoy the presence of each other, wandering, not going anywhere and not wanting to turn back.