Minute-One:

Eight swimsuit-clad strangers from around the world avoided eye-contact as they sat upon a modern bench that hugged the contours of the sauna's back-wall. The women were in Stockholm for The Nordic Plunge.

Violet leaned left to unstick her right thigh from the wooden slats—spaced in such a way to allow steam to rise up from beneath—and a wet squelch emanated as her hamstring and the smooth teakwood parted ways. Women on both sides huffed and scooted over, causing Violet to become self-conscious. Though it would be difficult to detect, she blushed. Already overheated, her cheeks were probably as red as hot-house tomatoes. Her situation worsened when blasts of hot steam to her nether-regions made her insides tingle in the same manner they had tingled when she'd hooked up with Jason-from-work last year.

Jeez-Louise, I need to get laid, she thought, and a sigh escaped her lips. Her sidekicks shuffled sideways, increasing the separation gap.

Off to a good start, winning friends and influencing people.

Violet felt her heartbeat in her temples. A pressure-cooker ready to explode, she felt sweet relief when her pores finally opened to release a deluge of sweat.

All eyes were averted when Naked-Helga, the aufguss and stereotypical Swedish snygging, leaned to pour a ladle of water over the stones. The only sounds in the tight quarters were the hiss of steam and dull thump of the ladle dropping back into the bucket adjacent to the sauna stove.

Minute-Five:

"It's hot in here, amiright?" someone quipped. Probably from New York, based on the accent. Proverbial crickets chirped; the New Yorker mumbled, "Fugetaboutit," and aggressively picked at her cuticles.

"Breathe deep, mina vänner," Naked-Helga instructed, then watered the stones and the ladies were enveloped in clouds of steam.

Minute-Ten:

Naked-Helga chanted words of empowerment and blessings, while waving a hand towel saturated with essential oils above each woman's head.

Violet breathed deep. It smelled like home—the lavender sachets Mama tucked inside her lingerie drawers. Mama, she leaned her head against the back-wall squeezing her eyes shut. Sweat and tears rolled down her cheeks, and as the steam began to work its magic, she thought about life and where she had taken a wrong turn.

Jason-from-work.

Him taking advantage after sensing her rawness when Mama died. She'd learned a valuable lesson about trust but refused to waste another second of energy on that heartless bastard.

"Breathe. Steam cleanses the soul," Naked-Helga waved the towel and cooed. Violet wept and there were sniffles all around.

Minute-Fifteen:

It started with one broken voice, "My husband, Thomas, he hits me," and for five minutes, they raged against Thomas, each sneaking in an injustice of their own, and were united in their hate of the abusers.

Twenty-Minutes:

"Ladies, we stand," Naked-Helga opened the door, instantly bringing in the cold, "Dry your tears and follow me."

Naked-Helga sprinted off, eight new pals shaking off their inhibitions (and swimsuits), close behind on the path to the frigid, healing waters of the Baltic Sea.

THE END

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