The Massage

She'd kinda gotten a little set in her ways. Living in that trailer, eating that canned tuna, never seeing nobody, it was what it was.

Then the money came in.

She moved to a real city in Florida. Every week, she'd walk back from the Piggly Wiggly and pass The Healing Hands Day Spa. It was one of them real nice ones that cost you an arm and a leg for a massage. It never felt right, to pay that much for something that disappears as soon as you walk out the door.

Just plain selfish.

Might as well use that good money on somethin tangible, like paying off the QVC card.

Then, after a particular rough week, burning pain from her neck down, she decided, "To hell with it. I'm gonna see what they can do."

It was dark and cool inside, and there was music playing that sounded like them nature CDs at Target. She made a mental note to go pick one up later.

In the room, she got nervous. Disrobe? Disrobe what? She decided to leave on her undergarments. She wriggled under the sheet and faced down, as instructed. She was glad her masseuse was a female. Not one of them fairy men or, worse, someone who'd think scandalous things while looking at her. The therapist knocked on the door; she was young and Asian. At least she spoke English. She began with her shoulders.

It was the first time the woman had been touched in years.

It was, Lord, she couldn't begin to describe it. She dozed off twice, swaddled on that table like a newborn. The only thing that she disliked was when that girl worked on her legs. It was ticklish, and she tensed up every previously relaxed muscle.

But by the end she felt like a million bucks. Like a dream version of herself. Floated, or zombie-walked out the door and into the sunshine.

She wanted to call her ex-husband, she craved to be touched some more. Her heart was as wide open as the sky.

Best damn money ever spent.