Session Note
Deirdre kept the room a little cold, just cold enough that nobody sank too quickly. Warmth made people loose. She used unscented oils and lotions now, nothing sweet. The towels were white, the walls were eggshell, the table draping was white. The little fountain burbled.
At 6:15, Paul Anders came in holding his wet anorak. Corporate beard.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m early.”
“You’re on time.”
“Oh.” He looked at the wall clock, then his phone. “Sorry.”
She gave him the form. He sat in the chair and filled it out: No injuries. Municipal billing accountant. Says he works out—not with that gut. Checked lower back, legs. First massage. Signed. His handwriting was careful. Separate letters, no slant. Bars through his sevens. When he handed it back, his thumb was pressed into the paper hard enough to bend it.
“You’ve never had professional massage before?”
“No.”
“That’s fine. I’ll walk you through it.”
He nodded.
“I’ll step out. Undress to your comfort level. You’ll be under the drape. I only uncover the area I’m working on. If anything feels uncomfortable, tell me.”
“OK.”
“This is therapeutic massage only.”
He looked up quickly. “Of course.”
She said it to new clients because in the old place it was a joke.
In the hall, she waited by the laundry cart. The music was still looping the same pan-pipes section. She kept meaning to change it. She knocked and came back in. He had the sheet and blanket pulled high, his clothes folded on the chair: shirt over pants, sock ball in right shoe.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
She washed her hands at the sink. She had before he arrived but did it again. The water was hot. She dried her hands and tossed the paper towel.
She began over the drape. Broad pressure on the shoulders first. Nothing intimate. He was rigid.
“That okay?”
“Yes.” His voice was tight.
She worked slowly. He gave up, one muscle group at a time: shoulders, neck, jaw. She used to be proud of tracking giving up.
“Pressure okay?
“Yes.” Delayed answer.
She worked his right arm, then left. His fingernails were trimmed. He kept opening and closing his hands. “You can let your hands rest,” she said.
“I thought I was,” and a small laugh. She smiled too much—or not too much, enough. When she asked him to turn over, he got tangled in the sheet and apologized twice.
“It’s fine,” she said.
He squirmed and settled facedown. His back was ordinary, pale, a few moles, a red waistband mark. He lay there like he didn’t want to be seen breathing. She worked the lower back, then glutes (through the sheet), then hamstrings. Her hands moved the way they were trained to move. The sheet stayed put.
Then his breathing changed.
She felt it before she heard it: a catch, a hold. Goosebumps. She could have moved to the calf and made her voice normal. Do you need a moment?
It was almost nothing, just less pressure and a long, slow U from the draping to behind the knee then up along the inside, stopping at the draping, a pause with no treatment reason. He gripped the side of the table. Her fingertips stayed where they were. His stomach tightened. His hips lifted once, barely. A grunt. He whispered something.
“What was that?”
“I’m sorry.” His face was turned away. His eyes were closed tightly.
The towel was in her other hand before she remembered reaching for it. Stop. Step out. Let the client clean himself. End or reset the session.
“It’s okay,” she said, but in the old room-voice, soft enough that it made him listen with his whole body. He stopped apologizing. He had heard the room-voice.
She stood there with the towel, then did what she told herself was practical. She had him roll on his side and cleaned him, slowly, carefully—more carefully than necessary—not looking at what was on the towel, taking care to keep using clean corners. She put a small towel over the wet spot.
“Please don’t be embarrassed,” she said. Same voice. She heard it but didn’t correct it. His breathing shook once and settled. His relief gave her a familiar warmth.
Nothing else happened.
When the hour ended, she stepped out so he could dress. She leaned against the wall by the thermostat, smelling fresh laundry in the cart. Inside, he moved quietly: belt jingle, shoelaces, one cough.
At the desk, he stood flushed with his wallet already out. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“You said that.” He looked wrung-out. “You didn’t do anything to me,” she said softly. His face changed. She shouldn’t have said it like that.
“Thank you,” he said. He paid for the session and added a tip. She saw the number on the screen. Twenty percent. She almost told him not to. She did not. At the door, he paused, half turned, one hand on the frame. Maybe a smile. He left softly, as if the door might break. Out the window she watched him in the parking lot talking on his phone while getting into his car, laughing.
Deirdre stripped the table—sheet, towel, face-cradle cover. She wiped down the lotion bottle, then the stool, then the counter. Then wiped down the lotion bottle again. The room looked normal. The room smelled the same: detergent, plain lotion, hand soap, and herself.
She tried to write the session note: Client had involuntary sexual response. No sexual contact. Session paused. Client reassured. Session resumed. She stared at it.
She gave up on the note, closed up, and went home.
In the morning, she opened the booking app in the car: Paul Anders. Thursday, 6:15 p.m. He had booked from the parking lot.
Upstairs, Room Two smelled faintly of detergent. She changed the music to one with whale songs. She sat on the hallway stool and listened to the new track all the way through.
© Jay Duffy
Jay Duffy is a New England native writing under the name Jay Duffy. Over the years, he has worked as an on-air pledge drive beggar at a PBS station, beach parking lot monitor, and parent.
