The Thermal Bath Weekend – Part 1: Steam

"The museum opens at ten," said Anna.

"The baths open at six," said Tamas.

"We have a schedule."

"We have a marriage."

She looked at him across the breakfast table of the small Budapest hotel. Snow fell outside, big soft flakes, silently covering the rooftops. He was forty-five, an economics teacher, broad, bearded, with a mischievous gleam. She was forty-two, a translator, brisk and practical, in a thick red jumper. They had two teenagers and a very full calendar, and had booked this weekend in a fit of nostalgia.

"Baths," she said at last.

"Baths!"

They walked to the grand old bathhouse through the falling snow, hand in hand, their breath steaming. The building was an ornate yellow palace with domes and columns, glowing in the grey morning. Inside, a courtyard opened onto a vast outdoor pool of steaming turquoise water, ringed by statues and fringed with snow. Steam rose in thick white curls into the cold air.

Anna stepped in, gasping. The water was hot as a bath, shockingly delicious. Snowflakes landed on her hair and melted. Tamas sank beside her with a groan of pleasure.

"Oh, that's good."

"It's a miracle."

"We should have come here every year."

"We should have come here at twenty-five."

She laughed, floating, her arms wide. Around them, other bathers drifted in the steam: elderly men playing chess on floating boards, a girl in a swimming cap, a matron reading a newspaper. The snow fell on the water like slow confetti.

"Can I ask you something?" said Tamas.

"Yes."

"When did we last do nothing?"

"The honeymoon."

"Then I propose we do nothing for the whole weekend."

"Green?" she said, the old word.

"Green," said Tamas, softly. "Very green. Close your eyes."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Night Bath.