Knead

I stand in the doorway and watch her quickly strip the linens from the table and replace them with fresh, her movements fluid from years of repetition. When she finishes, she immediately turns to me, arm extended, and I hand her the clipboard, with its completed client information sheet. She tucks it under her arm and grins, putting me at ease. Her features are elfin—delicate with an underlying strength, confident and devastatingly feminine. I feel a hint of something that I'd rather not feel in this environment—with this person. I'm here on business, after all—even though that business is pleasure. Health, too. And vitality. Vigor. Peace. All those things. All those things wrapped up in touch—in skin. My throat is suddenly dry.

"First time?"

"No," I manage to croak.

"Then you know the drill. Undress to your comfort level," she continues in a soft voice, handing me a pale green flannel sheet which feels as if it's just been taken from a dryer, "and lie on the table on your back. I'll be back in just a moment."

I can't look her in the eyes. In a few minutes, she'll be running her hands over my skin, and it's too much—too close for comfort—to also let her capture my gaze. I feel the need to hold that part of me in reserve, so I busy myself untying my sneakers and just say, "Okay. Thanks."