When the water dragon had suggested a day at the spa, Griffin had thought her mad. Even though she flaunted a coupon she received from the hotel staff (“Buy one full day, get one free! Pamper your piggies! Polish your posies! Limited time offer.”), the wyvern still was hesitant. Spas were notoriously for women, he thought. What would an outsider think if they saw him—what he believed to be a muscular, powerful, and rather dashing male specimen—hunkered in such a feminine lair?
Then he observed his calloused feet, the twinges in his back, and the knots in his neck. And with a reluctant grin, he agreed to accompany Aerith to the spa. After all, if he didn’t attend, the coupon would go to waste. And Griffin certainly wouldn’t allow that to happen.
Though the front of the building looked frou-frou enough, the decor within went overboard. The walls were slathered in garish lace print and pastel pink paint, and the floor was an awful checkerboard of lilac and mint. Each member of the personnel wore an apron in pale pink, and on their faces they wore identical plastic smiles.
Griffin immediately felt uneasy.
After paying for a full day treatment with Aerith’s coupon, a woman with far too much makeup ushered the two odd customers to an isolated section in the corner of the shop. While they were valued, seeing as they’d in fact paid for the service, they were too strange to allow near the other customers. The woman was only playing it safe.
Aerith nestled down in the first chair she saw, cracking her neck once before languidly placing her hands behind her neck. “Y’know, Griff, I never thought I’d come to a prissy spa by myself, let alone with you.”
The woman who’d escorted them smiled broader, the skin at the corners of her lips creasing heavily. “We pride ourselves on our non-prissy policy, miss.”
Waving the woman away, Aerith said, “You can say it all you like, but this,” she tossed her hand spastically in the air before her, “is prissy.”
“Enjoy your stay,” the woman said, clearly murderous. People like these were the reason she hated this job. And to think she’d dropped out of clown college for this. Or was it medical school? The fumes from the fragrance in the air often afflicted her memory.
Aerith stared down Griffin. “Are you going to sit, or what?” The wyvern had remained standing, still as stone. “I’m sure your feet are pretty rank, man.”
His cheeks flared. As he sat down, he said, “They may not smell like roses, but if they all are as sour as Acacia, I would not wish that fate on anyone.”
Snorting, Aerith shook her head. “Good one.”
At that moment, an entourage of beauticians filed neatly into our area, and brandishing their various forms of torture—or rather, luxury—they smiled at the two odd characters.
And so the treatment began.
Two hours later, Griffin awoke with a start. His head was light, his nose on fire, and his feet felt as smooth as an infant’s bottom against the uncomfortable material on the chair. Licking his lips, he sat up with a groan. Aerith was doing the same.
“Did they... did they knock us out?” she asked, eyes blinking forcefully.
Griffin shook his head. “I do not believe so. I think we were simply too relaxed...”
A woman with a black bob and very red lipstick popped in. “Thank you for joining us. But we’re closing. Now. So please get out.” She smiled. “Have a great day.”
Together Griffin and Aerith struggled from the chairs and headed for the door, grabbing their receipt from the receptionist on the way out. It wasn’t until they were outside that Aerith looked down and realized what had been done. Sputtering, she began to laugh.
“D-did you l-look at your feet?” she said between laughs. Puzzled he followed her gaze.
Not only were his toenails trimmed to a perfect, fine edge, but they were painted in an even shade of hot pink. Griffin’s cheeks soon matched his toenails. “What have they done? What atrocious color have they died my toes?”
“‘Pretty Passionate Pomegranate,’ apparently,” said Aerith after checking the receipt. “I think it suits you.”
“Well I did not ask for your opinion which, though it may come as a surprise, is wrong.”
Aerith couldn’t get over the fact that such a “manly” creature would have pink toenails (even though he owned a fabulous collection of pink polos) and continued laughing all the way to the hotel.
Once inside, she bade him goodnight and went on her merry way.
Then along came Akira. She met his eyes once and said, “You don’t strike me as the type of guy to enjoy a spa day. You aren’t gay... are you?” Suddenly she seemed fearful. Griffin didn’t know whether he should feel scared or furious.
“I most certainly am not. The spa treated my feet with an incomparable sincerity,” he blabbed.
Akira stared down at the wyvern’s polished toes and made a look of disgust. “Your toenails are pink, Griffin. Pink. I... I’m so done with you.” With a heavy sigh she turned and began to walk away.
“They are not pink,” Griffin mumbled, starting after her. “They are ‘Pretty Passionate Pomegranate.’ There is a difference!”
