Applehead Fever

36 - a product of loveliness

Birdsong laced the early atmosphere with its natural beauty, floating through the cracked window of my suite. With it came a frigid breeze, an abrupt contrast to the warm and sometimes humid tickles of wind I felt in LA. Though it was a soft and tranquil breeze. One I had grown familiar with and subconsciously missed. Causing me to hike the blankets up to my chin and snuggle into the warmth of my nest.

The alarm beside my temporary bed abruptly interrupted the welcome haze of my morning with its shrill blaring. Demanding that I rise and put my limp limbs to use.

I groaned, regretting having set it the night before. It was only because today was my last day in my home away from home, and the me that had been fueled on a random burst of energy and optimism last night wanted to make the most of it.

Sometimes I hated when past me made brash decisions that present me now had to deal with.

Nonetheless I ceased my inward complaining and peeled the covers off my heated body, little goosebumps raised by the rush of air created. It was much colder than I expected.

The early morning grumpiness dissipated while I whisked breakfast up, appreciating the kitchen the Parker Meridian provided. Excitement quickly replaced it as my mind circled back to what John Draper informed me the night before.

Michael wanted me back on the tour after my last New York City date. I would join up again in Atlanta, a month later on April 13th. The ecstatic buzz I welcomed when I heard the news made a full recovery. By the time I left the hotel I was practically skipping down 56th street.

The attire for my journey was inconspicuous; a heavy ebony trench coat over a simple beige t-shirt with blue jeans, light sneakers, and a black cap pulled low over my face. Fans still spotted and clamored around me when I went out in public, even more so now that I was on tour. I had to go incognito. But the cap wasn't enough. Even so, people approached me for autographs, and though I happily complied, it slowed down my progress through the city and distracted me from my goal.

As soon as I was freed from the fans, I shuffled into a clothing shop, meandering around until I found some sunglasses. Dark and reflectively obscuring my eyes. It was the best I could do, and it worked once I paid and continued on my way.

I was able to visit Manhattan and some of Central Park. Within Central Park was the Wollman Rink, where I watched swarms of people gliding across the ice. It was the last month for them to do so, and a perfect day with the cold winds. I considered going out, but decided against it and switched directions back to the hotel. My feet were starting to ache. Something I didn't want ailing my body and performance when showtime rolled around soon.

When I returned to the salvation and snugness of my room, I ran a boiling bath. The colors from the sky outside drained into the pale line of the horizon and with it the temperature descended even further. Not only stiffening my limbs with fatigue, but with glacial pressure. Now needing to be unthawed.

One leg after the other I slipped into the full tub, through the faintly crackling bubbles to penetrate the unagitated surface of the water. Stinging warmth evoking a hiss from my gritted teeth. Though despite the temporary malaise, I persisted until my entire body was inundated in the steaming liquid. Adjusting minutes later and prying open my pores to relax.

A quarter of an hour later, a muffled trill fought its way through the closed door and to my ears. A slender leg surfaced from the frothing liquid, bubbles clinging to my smooth skin. Their minuscule pops sounded under the ringing, pushing me to realize it was my phone needing to be answered. I was reluctant to leave my haven of a bath, with the warm water lapping at my skin and unknotting every muscle on my bones, but I was curious. Wondering who could be calling so close to showtime. I drained the water, watching it sink around me lazily, before stepping out and encasing myself in an ivory towel.