The strength of Greg's hands, the warm oil, gentle conversation and soft music opens up a little door inside of me that I keep closed most of the time. I start to think about being caressed by Charley, about being in bed beside him, about lying next to him when he was sick. Even with an electric blanket, he still felt cold. A few of these memories and I'm a big, sobbing baby.
Greg tells me this is pretty common, that half of the people he massages get horny and try to jump him, the other half cries and want to be held.
"I consider myself blessed to see the Rock of Gibraltar crumble a little." He dug his thumbs into the muscles at the top of my neck and it was as if another door that had been closed suddenly burst open and I began talking a mile a minute.
"It's just the stress of dealing with Mocha Daze. Marty, Jenn, Mike..."
"Are you worried about him?"
"No. I set him straight. Talked to him like he was joining the Marine Corps. I told him to get a haircut!"
"I like his hair!"
"Well, he's not working for you, is he? Do you want a lock of his hair floating in your coffee next time you come by?"
"Yuck."
"My sentiments, exactly," I sighed, "but it's not just that. I know what you told me the other day, but I haven't seen Steve for a couple of days and I miss him. Then there's Charley's kids--that fucking nightmare! I don't even want to go there."
Greg's hands massaged my temples and my eyes closed. I could feel myself starting to drift.
"Why hasn't Steve stopped by the coffee house?" asked Greg.
"He's away on holiday."
Greg's hands stopped. "No, he's not. I saw him at the gym just the other day."
I opened my eyes. "When?"
"New Yearâs Day."
One of my hands drifted up and waved it off and thought, ÎI'm not going to think about. Maybe I just misunderstood him.â
