I just had a physical fight in a Korean nail salon. Not bad. So, my toes are Fiji, and my nails are filed round and coated Limo-Scene. Just darling with my adorable new silky lace tank top. Then I shuffle in their too-big flip-flops to the massage chair.
I imagine James turns a timer for my minute slot with him. Bubye now. But I try. I try to clear my mind and stay in the present, reminding myself to drop my shoulders and relax my neck. He spends some time on my neck, pushing in knots and points with his fingers, hard. When massages are too hard, I sometimes try to will the clock forward and pray for the ding. But this is perfect.
It feels like relief, and I imagine having a lover. Massages are intimate, especially near the wrists. Instead, he spends a lot of time fannying about near my breasts. I mean, maybe he thinks your pectoral muscles are sore from all that lifting you do. It was like he was digging in a desk drawer for my pink erasers. Then he moves toward the outside, rolling my shoulders. It becomes a silent war. He pushes my shoulders back, to prop my chest up off the chair, so his hands can swing around to the front.
I know, you think I might be imaging things. I think so too, so I remind myself to exhale. Then, I swear to god, I hear his zipper.
My eyes blink open, but his pants are zipped closed. Okay, sweetheart, breathe. And just as I begin to, his hands navigate toward my waistline, grabbing around it, hard. My eyes open again. But then his hands zoom up and reach into my corner pockets. He begins to massage my sweaty armpits. Instead he begins to spend all too much time trying to massage the sides of my breasts, trying to dig his fingernails under my weight.
