The therapist kept laughing in a soft tone behind me. Her hands were warm and slick with oil, gliding over my skin before returning to the same stubborn spot near my neck. “You have a lot of tension here.”
“A lot?” Tasha lifted her head from the cradle far enough for one eye to peek in my direction. The white towel wrapped around her hair was now crooked, making her look like she had lost a fight with a hotel bathrobe. “Baby, she got two jobs, a stalker husband, a secret side hustle, and apparently a man putting a stupid little glow on her face. That’s not tension, that’s a group project.”
My head snapped up before the therapist gently guided it back down. “I don’t have a glow.”
“You do.”
“It’s moisturizer.”
“That moisturizer got a beard?”
The second massage therapist pressed both palms into Tasha’s back, and the smart remark turned into a groan that sounded almost religious. “Ooh, right there,” she breathed with her fingers spreading against the sheet. “See, this is why I don’t believe in struggling. Ain’t no reason I should ever be somewhere suffering when women with strong hands exist.”
“You’ve been in here ten minutes and told that lady your whole life,” I said.
“Well, she asked where I hold stress.”
“She didn’t ask for your childhood address.”
“She needed context.” She teased.
The room smelled like eucalyptus, lavender, and a faint citrus that made everything smell and feel so clean. A narrow waterfall ran down the stone wall opposite us, as the quiet trickling blended with the music. The lights had been dimmed low enough to soften everything around the cream-colored walls, the folded towels, and even Tasha’s nonstop mouth.
It had been too long since I had done anything that didn’t serve some immediate purpose because every hour of my life lately belonged to somebody else. Even rest had started feeling like something I needed to schedule.
The therapist dragged her knuckles down either side of my spine, and my body sank deeper into the table. “Are you snoring?” she asked.
“No.” I lied with a smile.
“You sounded unconscious.”
“That’s because I was happy.” I cooed.
“Same thing.”
I continued smiling into the cushion. The therapist moved lower, working slow circles into the muscles above my hips, and a deep breath slipped out of me before I could stop it.
Tasha immediately started laughing. “Oh, she done found the good spot.”
“Shut up.” I smirked.
“I’m just saying. That little sound came from your ancestors.”
My therapist tried to hide her laugh, but her shoulders shook.
“You’re getting on everybody’s nerves,” I told Tasha.
“And yet everybody loves me.”
“That’s because they don’t know you long enough.”
“Girl, please. I’m unforgettable.” She teased.
She really was because Tasha could walk into a funeral and somehow have the widow laughing before the repast. She filled empty space naturally, because she believed every room improved once she entered it. Even lying face down beneath a white sheet with her bonnet-shaped towel sliding toward one eyebrow, she carried herself like the spa had been built around her reservation.
When the massages ended, neither of us moved. The therapists stepped out to let us dress, leaving behind two glasses of cucumber water and a warning to sit up slowly. Tasha lifted her head, blinked at me through sleepy eyes, then let it drop again.
“I live here now.”
