The door is open, I said, just come in. As a massage therapist I remained professional, but as a person I longed for closeness with another person. It seemed, after thirteen years in the profession, I had reached a crossroads: being with people without really being with them was getting to me. At work I felt like an imposter. I greeted Sonia with a smile anyway and reviewed my notes about her past visits, asked her if there were any updates. She said her shoulders were tight.
With that I left the room while she got ready. The next day I gave up all my permanent shifts. Professional massage therapy is big on boundaries, for the therapist and the client. I had a state license.
I was nationally board certified. I did not have personal relationships with my clients. I ended my sessions on time. Perhaps outside of the office, I could head in a more personal direction. I sat on the couch reading a book with Carson sleeping on the floor. The door opened and I got up to greet Jake. I have better things to do than to spend my day face down in a computer. I enjoy working with you! George Winston played in the background. It was a Sunday just after noon because he could never be on time, and as I conducted the massage, I was glad I called him.
It was rare we had a steady rain like this, but there was that one sailboat out on the Santa Monica Bay, I could see though the window while I worked on him: it was a vessel of hope. Sometimes it just takes one thing. So I took to texting him for massage-on-demand. He really liked massage and was on his feet a lot, lived a physical life as tennis pro, but the thing is, I liked the company.
It had been years since I had any fun. I did, however, feel like I was dancing with him. I felt as close as I could be to a person without really being with them. There was safety in that. He did not consider me a friend. For many years being in a dark room with a stranger who was usually naked but covered with a sheet felt comfortable to me.
