The Massage
She drew the curtains. Heavy with dust, unremarkable. Old. They made a metallic whoosh as they gathered. She turned around. There he lay spread across the bed like a starfish. Ready for her. Face down, moving her to rub out his day. She started with his neck. Then his shoulders. Bulky. Hard to wrap her hands around. Her hands were small, boy like, but strong. She gathered her energy spread wide through her fingers. His biceps. Undefined. His forearms, masculine. She worked in the direction of the hair growing there. Onto his lower back, she pushed forward and upward. Do you want me to rub your feet? Heels up. I’m not gonna say no. She worked thoroughly into his ankles. Carrying god-knows-what along with his day. She could feel his trauma bearing down on him. His calves were especially tight. She took a deep breath and exhaled as she worked the pain from his body. And up into his inner thighs.
And then he turned over.