The Problem With Falling In Love: The Masseuse
How to tell that it hurt where she touched? That knot she had kneaded hadn’t existed (nor had any kneading really been needed) in the morning, as I made my way to gate B37 and happened to glance from a distance at a slender figure with lopsided auburn locks standing behind a row of massage chairs. Whatever fantasies ensued from re-imagining the use of these articulated contraptions, I should have known to take notice of the serious S&M undertones implied by anything involving so much steel and black leatherette.
I struck up a conversation and paid $75 for the full service, thirty minutes on the chair. It was all smiles and stolen glimpses, but, before I could inquire as to the meaning of the sanskrit tattoo visible between her left sandal and the cuff of her capri pants, I was transported to a world of pain. Cut-off from the possibility of alerting anyone to my despair by the plush headrest within which my face laid, I was reduced to expressing myself by moans a dying humpback whale might make. Why couldn’t I have gone for just five, or ten, or twenty minutes instead of the full thirty? Why did I ever think I could impress my doe-eyed mistress by splurging, as if such heresy could impress Torquemada’s heir?
I went for a jog this morning. I stretched and took a hot shower. I had orange juice and muesli and I even answered some emails. It was a sunny day. There was no line through security and I was not fondled by anyone from the TSA, which gave me ample time for my half-mile walk to the gate. Perhaps feeling good is in bad taste in this day and age, but I never thought it could presage such suffering as I endured at the hands of Clara, the masseuse. I ended up missing the flight and opting for an emergency visit to my chiropractor, despite his array of equally ominous chairs.
