Missed Connections

Missed Connections: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"So you're the new girl?"

Pete would gasp in horror if he saw her thick, shapeless eyebrows—like two mustaches have taken residence above her large brown eyes. She's pretty in an unkempt, granola way, but with some militant brushing and shine serum for her hair and a little grooming, she could be stunning. The shapeless top in shades of green—almost a kaftan—does nothing to hide her curves but doesn't accentuate them either. Her leggings end just below her knees.

She doesn't shave her legs. Power to her for being confident enough to walk around bare-legged and hairy.

I'd never be able to do that, despite sometimes wishing I could. "Yes. I'm Sarah."

"Phyllis." She holds out her hand, and I shake it. My hand is shiny with massage oil when I pull it back. I try not to think about how this oil's been rubbed all over some stranger's naked body and now she's smeared it on me.

"Oh, sorry about that." She doesn't sound sorry about it.

"It's fine." I grab a hand wipe and scrub. It's going to bug me until I can wash it off with soap, but I have to finish updating the schedule first.

"I just got back from vacation. We haven't really had a chance to chat."

"No, we haven't." I try to keep a mild smile, but I don't have time right now to get to know her. Hands land on my shoulders and begin kneading the muscles. Hard. "Ouch." I flinch away. "What are you doing?"

"You're so tense." Phyllis reaches for me again. "You should book an appointment with me."

"I have no time. And I don't really like being touched." Hint.

"Your poor boyfriend." She stops the assault and steps back. "You're going to end up with a stress hump unless you see someone to work out that tension."

"My tension is what's holding me together." Ten bucks says I bruise from her ministrations. And now there are two dark patches on my shirt where she touched it.

"Phyllis, that was wonderful." Her client, Deanne, ambles into reception, and I step around them and slip into the room they just exited. It's been four days of trial and error, but I've found a rhythm for my job that

works—if I move like a scalded rabbit.

It turned out that during my first few days, they had taken it easy on me. Now that I'm more comfortable on the desk, I'm expected to prep the rooms between sessions as well. If I'm fast, I can do it while the therapists talk to their clients, finishing just as they're done assigning stretches or chatting about the massage. Then I take payment as the next client goes in.

As long as no one phones, the rhythm works.

Even in the dim light, I can tell it's a bigger mess than any other masseuse has left all week. I hope it's a one-off and not Phyllis's usual style. Sliding the dimmer switch as bright as it will go, I cringe at the mess and spring into action, hoping the phone won't ring.

First stop: the massage table. I peel off the fuzzy blanket and fold it as fast as I can, despite the shocks assaulting my fingertips from the static buildup. Four days of this, and I don't even swear under my breath anymore. I use a towel to wipe up the puddle of massage oil leaking onto the shelf, then toss the towel to the table. I peel back the sheets and ball them up, trying not to let them touch my body, before tossing the self-contained ball to the floor. I don't want to leave a grease spot on my shirt like I did yesterday.

I wipe down the bed with the all-natural cleaning product Fern and Ziggy swear by. It's made with chrysanthemums and dries out my hands but still somehow manages to be greasy. Next, I take fresh bedding from the shelf, snapping the elastic of the fitted sheet around the edges of the table, then slinging the top sheet on, turning it down invitingly at the corner. Finally, I fold a face towel over the headrest.