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“Lie down,” she instructs, placing Leia’s carry seat on the deck beside the sofa.
I frown. “What for?”
She just points at the sofa.
Muttering, I sit down in the middle and go to turn.
“Head this way,” she says, pointing to the end nearest her.
I switch the other way and lie down, resting my head on the cushion she’s just placed there. She kneels on another cushion at the end, so that when I look up, I see her face upside down.
She places her hands on my forehead, then runs her fingers lightly over my skin. “Does it hurt to touch?”
“No.”
“How about here?” She threads her fingers through my hair, sliding them across my scalp.
I stifle a shiver. “No.”
“Okay. Close your eyes and try to relax.”
She proceeds to move her fingers with a light touch, so she’s stroking firmly rather than massaging. At first, I feel too self-conscious, slightly turned on by it and worried I’m going to end up with an obvious erection. But gradually, as she works the muscles of my face and neck and strokes through my hair, my eyes close, and I surrender to her touch.
Ohhh… it feels magnificent. She spends ages working across my face, sliding the pads of her fingers across my forehead, down my cheeks, and across my nose and chin. She massages the tops of my shoulders where they meet my neck, and the muscles around my clavicle and upper arms, then returns to my face and eventually back to my hair. She strokes up from the nape of my neck up to temples, then slowly massages my scalp. She takes her time, splaying her fingers out, then drawing them together.
Everything tingles, and I can feel the tension ebbing from my jaw and teeth, which often ache during a migraine. She applies light pressure with the tips of her fingers around my eye sockets, around my eyebrows, at my temples, and at other points across my skull, a technique which I’m sure is akin to acupuncture.
“Did they teach you this at the salon?” I murmur eventually, impressed.
“Yes. It’s called Indian Head Massage or Champissage.”
“You’re very good at it.”
“Thank you.”
“I bet my hair looks a mess.”
She laughs and runs her fingers through it. “It might need a comb through.” She strokes a finger across my forehead, then down my nose and across my mouth. It doesn’t feel like part of the massage. Her nail scrapes on my bristles, and I’m sure I hear her sigh.
Then, finally, she sits back. “Let me know if that helps,” she says. “It’s supposed to be good for relieving migraines.”
I sit up slowly. I feel lightheaded and a bit out of it.
“What time are the guys coming around?” she asks.
“After work, five-ish.”
“Well, can I make a suggestion? Why don’t you lie out here for a while, maybe with some sunglasses, and rest? You’re going to need some energy over the next few days, and it would be good to get rid of this headache.”
I want to protest, to say that I don’t need handling or organizing, but the idea of an afternoon nap appeals, and she’s right—the next few days are going to be stressful and busy.
“All right,” I say, a little grouchily.
“Where are your sunglasses?”
“On the coffee table.” I go to get up, but she’s already walking off.
She fetches them for me and brings them back. “Lie down.”
