Written by Kelly Anneken
Photo: © Depositphotos.com/Subbotina
Marci walked into the spa like she owned the place because she fucking did. She sipped a non-fat soy chai latte with a straw that shone green between her expertly whitened, perfect teeth and swayed her Lululemon-clad hips just so as she walked past Trevor at reception. Trevor was just one in a long line of interchangeable, muscle-bound hotties that Marci rotated out every nine months or so, citing various micro-economic downturns as the reason for termination.
“What can I tell you? Bush is back in, and it’s killing my bottom line.”
“I just read that massage chairs were huge at Christmas this year, so people don’t want the real thing.”
“Women are just into a different kind of facial these days.”
And so on. She was generally assiduous about not hiring anyone intelligent enough to wonder why she didn’t just fire the waxers, masseurs, and aestheticians she employed, rather than the lunkhead manning the phone. She certainly didn’t need the fucking EEOC poking around her operation. She made a mental note to start casually referring to her vagina as her “operation” in mixed company, if any part of her survived the day. That sort of feeble wordplay always made her a hit at parties—she had no idea why the general public was so obsessed with euphemisms for female genitalia, but her business was—and always would be—giving the people what they wanted.
She reached her office door and rotated the keychain in her right hand until the ornate, custom skeleton key dropped between her thumb and index finger. She pushed it into the keyhole and turned it until it clicked. Marci dropped her bag onto the chair just inside. She could easily afford a designer tote, and indeed owned several which she used on special occasions, spa conventions and whatnot, but she felt that it made her seem relatable to others if she carried the low-key canvas number from Etsy, which read “yogaholic” in a spunky, youthful font.
Marci fucking hated yoga. She fucking hated everything except her own damn self, and that was how she’d always been. She hit the light in her office, revealing a gleaming white and chrome desk, bamboo floor, and shōji-inspired walls hung with various awards and pictures with industry luminaries she was supposed to give a fuck about. She closed the door (brushed chrome) and settled into the ergonomic desk chair.
Almost immediately, a knock came at the door, followed by Trevor’s head. Marci arranged her face into a brittle smile.
“What is it, Trevor?”
“There’s someone to see you out front. She says you’ll be expecting her?”
“Give me ten minutes and send her in.”
Trevor ducked back out and Marci sucked on her green straw contemplatively. She had, of course, known about this fucking appointment. She had known about it for decades, in fact, but felt it was more fitting to approach the day in question with as much an air of normalcy as possible. Of course, now that the day had finally arrived, in fact the moment had nearly arrived, Marci felt a stinging, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, not unlike the feeling she got on those days she decided to forego food and instead consume only the lemon-cucumber water in the spa’s ubiquitous, sweating glass coolers. It was only natural, what was about to happen, and either she would come out on top or she would not. After so long with no uncertainty, no surprises, she found her apprehension quickly transforming into excitement, so much so that her “operation” began to moisten in anticipation.
Marci impulsively grabbed the chrome remote on the desk next to her laptop and pressed the red button. The shōji wall opposite her lifted, revealing a bank of monitors. Jessica was in with a client, ripping out her pubic hair with the custom formulation wax Marci had patented only last year. Rafa was tenderly massaging an elderly woman with skin like squishy parchment paper. And Claudia and Naomi were in the break room, testing out a new china clay mask on the backs of their hands. Marci considered whether she would miss them or not, come to cases, but dismissed the thought as she flicked her tongue out to capture a spider she’d had her eye on for a week or so. No time like the present.
Her visitor entered without knocking, a black, wide-brimmed hat perched above yards of black tulle. A trifle predictable, a bit melodramatic, but Marci thought if a scenario called for melodrama, this would be it. The visitor didn’t speak, but began unwinding the tulle as Marci stood, arms crossed, remote still in one hand. She pressed the red button again and stole a look at Trevor, who was struggling with a staple remover. Stupid, beautiful Trevor. If Marci were capable of feelings that were anything but recreational, she might have felt something then, but as things were, she only felt the cold, tantalizing prick of the unknown.
Marci drummed her manicure—french tips, even though she knew that french tips were over—on the desktop as the final layer of tulle fell to the floor. Marci stared into the visitor’s face, a perfect copy of her own. The sharp cheekbones, the perfectly threaded eyebrows, the puckered, full lips. Even if no part of what passed for Marci’s personality survived, she’d still look damn good. Of course the eyes weren’t quite right, black and glossy, like two dilated pupils out of control, but that would sort itself out in time. The visitor smiled, flicking her own sticky tongue out, a bit ostentatiously, Marci thought, but of course, even pod-incubated alien anchors had their quirks.
They didn’t speak to one another—what would have been the point? The visitor approached Marci, who finally dropped the remote. Marci felt her cells go porous and amphibious for the first time since her deployment as the visitor stepped into her, their arms melting together, faces, legs, and torso becoming one. It would all be over soon, and perhaps Marci’s consciousness would survive, but the visitor would certainly ingest Marci’s host body before the lifeless husk hit the floor.
She couldn’t fucking wait.
—–
Kelly Anneken is what happens when Kim Kardashian looks like Bette Midler and tweets like Roseanne. Her debut comedy release, Twenty Minutes to Sell, is available wherever digital recordings are sold/stolen. Kelly is the former editor of humor journal Hobo Pancakes, and her writing has appeared at The Mary Sue, KQED Pop, and The Tusk. You can (and should) follow her at @thefatling.