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or if you’d like a little more.”
    “Will do,” I say .
    She stan d s above me at the head of the massage table and reaches for lotion from a dispenser next to the iPod. With a last gl impse of her red curls, I close my eyes. The sound of her rubbing he r lotioned hands together fills the room against the backdrop of the iPod’s ocean music.
    Jillian places her hands on either side of my neck. The simple act of touch i s soothing in itself, regardless of pressure. I feel my neck melt into my shoulders as she works t hrough the muscles. Her hands a re warm gliding along my skin. After working my neck, she moves to my right side and massages the muscles of my upper arms, down to my forearms, a nd finally my hands. She strokes each finger down to its tip, then moves to the other arm. I doze off at one point and when I wake, Jillian i s working on my c alves and feet. Ocean sounds have turned to rainforest.
    “Okay,” Jillian says . “I’m going to lift the sheet and then I’d like you to go ahead and turn over.” I do so, nestling my head into the face cradle. I study the beige car peting beneath me as she covers me back up with the sheet.
    “Are you comfortable?” she asks , leaning down o ver me, close enough that I feel her hair brush the back of my neck.
    “Yes,” I answer . “I’m very comfortable.”
    I am about to doze off again , hovering in that sweet spot between wakefulness and sleep, when she says , “I can tell that you carry a lot of stress in your shoulders.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    She pulls the s heet down to my waist and works my bac k with her elbows. Again, I feel her hair brush against my skin. I have to do this more often, I think. When she’s worked all the way thr ough my lower back, she replaces the sheet, but then folds it up from the bottom, exposing my fe et up to my thighs. She massages my legs and I’m in a lavender-scented heaven. 
    “Let me just get some more lotion,” she says. She continues on my legs, moving fart her and farther upward. I stare at the floor and soak in every second o f her touch. When she reaches the tops of my legs, she begi n s massaging my butt.
    “Oh, that’s good,” I say .
    “Yes, you carry a lot of tension in your butt, too.”
    I giggle , a sure si gn that the stress of the day is forgotten. She massages my ass for what seems like a welcome eternity , then moves one hand to rest on the back of my upper thigh. The other hand keeps massaging. The hand resting on my leg begi n s a slow creep in between my legs. Suddenly I feel a new sort of stress and my body tenses. I’m wide awake now, with no danger of dozing off.
    “Jillian?”
    “Yes.”
    “I just want a regular massage. I, um, I didn’t know that this was one of those places.”
    “It’s not.”
    “It’s not?”
    “No.”
    “Then what are you doing?”
    “It’s just me and you,” she says . “We’re the only ones here, we have tim e, and we can relax.” She works her hand deeper between my legs until my thighs tense, stopping her, essentially denying her permission to go further.
    “But I don’t even know you,” I say. As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize how ridiculous they are, as if any sort of acquaintance would somehow make the situation appropriate.
    “ Of course you know me,” she says calmly. “We’re the same. We’re women with lives and families and worries that are outside of this room. But we’re also women with bodies and needs that are inside this room. All of the thing s that are outside this room are completely separate. They have no bearing on what is inside this room. Now, are you sure you want me to stop?”
    Her hand is still , smooth with lotion. T echnically speaking, nothing has turned sexual yet, though it is dangerously close. All that is outside of the room flashes through my brain, my husband, my children, my creepy boss. I have mounting debt, chronic anxiety, and a daily routine that’s becoming increasingly more difficult to