By Yimi Lu
Nina felt the neck pain again. It had been returning for months, familiar and precise, like a reminder she hadn’t asked for.
The woman she went to was always there. Sixty dollars for an hour. Tips optional. Nina always left the house as soon as Michelle confirmed her availability. They met at the front, then everything reversed. Michelle would close the door, fetch a towel and lotion, and begin.
Today, Michelle asked, “Neck again?”
“Also lower back,” Nina said, lying down on her belly.
“How about an hour and a half? Only twenty bucks more.”
Nina nodded, face pressed into the bed, eyes half-closed.
Michelle’s hands moved in rhythm with the soft lo-fi music, focused and firm. Her fingers never hesitated. She knew exactly where to press, exactly how long to stay. Just like every time they met before. Steady and promising.
Nina breathed in the faint scent of jasmine lotion. Her thoughts drifted, and with them came the first time she saw Michelle. She had black eyes, dark hair, nude makeup, no rings or polish. Her voice had been soft and clear, not overly flattering, but enchanting. Her smile was wide enough to make Nina feel unexpectedly at ease. But what stirred in her was more than comfort. It felt like curiosity, drawn toward someone who didn’t belong in her routine life.
While she was touched by Michelle, she imagined herself as a painting, restored by Michelle’s hands, almost ready for a gallery wall. Michelle never said much, but once told Nina, “You’re slimmer than last time.” Nina wasn’t sure if it was true. She accepted it anyway. It meant something to be remembered. She was surprised by how much that pleased her. She wasn’t the type to care about things like that.
She hadn’t planned to return. But she did. Again and again.
For the pain. For the touch. For Michelle.
No one else had touched her like this. Not in years.
This time, Michelle’s fingers lingered longer on her lower back. Her muscles loosened under the pressure, and somewhere in her heart, something softened too.
“I’d like to just lie here forever,” she murmured.
“That does sound nice,” Michelle said, then added, more softly, “I have to go. My family’s waiting.”
She hesitated, then said, “Actually, it’s our sixteenth anniversary. We were going to eat out, but my son came home. I’m cooking instead. You know, simple dishes.”
“That’s nice,” Nina said absentmindedly. She hadn’t known Michelle was married. Or had a son. She tried to picture a house with a dinner table and someone saying thank you. Her mind gave up halfway through.
The music didn’t stop. Michelle’s hands didn’t change. But they no longer felt perfect. Nina pictured those hands slicing onions, stirring soup, and placing plates in front of people she loved.
She stayed still, not sure what she felt. Not sure what she was allowed to feel.
Later, walking to her car, Nina rolled her shoulders. The pain was gone, just as she expected.
She knew it would return.
And that felt almost like relief.
Yimi Lu (@yimiwriting) writes about people who don’t say what they mean in her own Chinese accent. Born in Shanghai, she now pretends to settle in Northern California. She builds code blocks by day and disassembles herself by night.
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