Ari walked through a mirrored hallway. A harsh, white light bulb hung from the ceiling. He pulled his shirt taught and sucked in his stomach. A row of a thousand Aris pulled their shirts taut and sucked in their stomachs, tightening and stretching their abdominals, muscles pulled like a balloon over a tin can. His reflection stared. Soo-Lee peeked his head back into the hallway, “Are you coming?” Ari released his breath, ran away from the mirrors into a room of scuffed wood.

The floors glossy hardwood, the low hum of an air conditioner hung in the air. Cubbies, made of thinner plywood, lined the walls. A straight, wooden broom stood against the wall, its frayed, faded yellow straw curled against the floor held potential energy ready to spring. “Anyong ha-seyo,” said a girl from behind a counter. Soo-Lee answered while Ari shuffled around. A blast of frozen, stale air smacked him in his face as he wandered past an air vent. The girl from the counter handed Ari a key, flashed a smile before turning away back to her computer. “Shoes off,” said Soo-Lee and slipped out of his shoes, worn, so that grey threads and elastic peeked out around the white leather. Ari kicked off his sandals, his feet sweaty and musty from the long drive to L.A, black dirt caked under the toenail of his big toe. They felt like lumpy slabs of pork, his feet, lying on a clean, cold butcher’s block. He trundled over to the cubbies, opened one with his key and put his shoes inside.

Shoulders hunched, Ari slumped after Soo-Lee, past an empty inhouse barbershop. Soo-Lee glanced at the tangled bush that sprung from Ari’s head. Soo-Lee’s cheek twitched. A flat voice speaking a long, purposeful stream of Korean, came out of the room ahead, along with the static of showers and the rumble of men. Ari tasted chlorine in the air. He swallowed. They entered the main hub of the spa. Fog hung in the air flavored with the plastic scent of hair care products. Korean news flashed on a screen attached to a wall. Three middle-aged men lounged on wide, padded, benches, and watched, each man with drooping eyes, drooping gut and drooping genitals. Soo-Lee pulled his shirt over his head and revealed his slender, hairless torso. He hopped out of his pants and underwear, folded them all and placed them in a wooden locker against one wall. “Take off our clothes?” Ari asked,

“Yes,” said Soo-Lee.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

The men on the benches watched Ari wriggle off his shirt. He looked down at his bare chest, hairy lumps, like flesh color play-dough slapped onto his muscles. They watched him step slowly out of his pants. And then his boxers. Droplets from the fog clung to all of his crevices. His skin itched.

“I can’t believe you’re still so fat,” Soo-Lee said to Ari. “You look like a baby.”

Ari wanted to say fuck off but he just said, “I’m working on it.”

“You better be.”

“I am. Do you think I like the way I look?” Ari turned and saw a full-length mirror. His body was wreathed in a halo of condensation. Water dripped along the sides of his stomach rolls. He twisted, stretched, the bottoms of his feet tickled by tile, trying to smooth out his midsection. Loud pops filled his head. He felt the disks of his spine grind against one another. The television prattled on. Ari heard a grunt behind him. Soo-Lee stepped through a spotless glass door at the other end of the room. Hurrying after him once again, Ari whispered, “I’m working on it.”