don’t recognise. But we are different people now, even though I feel myself slipping into my teenage skin again—and adoring Amy silently. Me, of the endless chatter on TV, the never-ending banter I’ve made a career of. A few minutes with Amy and I’m sixteen again.
“Why don’t we get on with it.” She places her cup on a small table next to the chair she sits in, one leg folded over the other. She looks at me, her eyes almost watery now, and in that one glance I see it. In that instant, I realise she always knew. “I give a mean massage, even if I do say so myself.” She erases the moment with a quip and a smile and I don’t know what to think.
The words massage and Amy seem to flash in my mind in big red letters. My brain can’t process the two of them together, as if it has neatly shelved any physicality away from the memory of Amy.
This morning when I drove past The Body Spa in my rental car, it just looked like a good place to book a massage. Now, it seems to have become a feverish dream location from puberty. A throwback to a time in my life I remember fondly, but don’t revisit very often.
“Sure.” I get up and we stand shoulder to shoulder, just like years ago in gym class.
“This way.” Was that a tremble in Amy’s voice?
Our arms brush together and, despite being fully dressed, it still has an instant impact on the flow of blood in my veins.
“It’s only a massage,” I tell myself. I treat myself to one every weekend. Usually, I nod off about halfway through to wake up invigorated after. Usually, the person administering the massage is Raj, a man with golden hands whom I’m not attracted to in the slightest.
The situation is quite different today, because, no matter how I twist or turn it—no matter how many years have passed—Amy is still that dark-haired girl who walked to school with me every single day of our senior year. She’s a woman now, but twenty years ago, my heart beat in my throat every time she waited for me at the corner of the street. Emotions I deemed erased by life a long time ago, seep back inside my brain as we walk to the therapy room.
And I know what comes next. I’m a massage aficionado and, usually, I don’t even think twice about it. It’s second nature to me and massages are simply not a clothed activity.
“You can undress over there.” Amy points to a door. “You’ll find a towel. Please take everything off.”
She might as well have planted a kiss on my lips, that’s how flushed I suddenly feel.
Amy’s tone is professional though, as is her demeanour. She adjusts the volume of the music in the room. “Do you mind if I put on something a bit unconventional for a place like this?”
I shake my head as she locks her iPhone in the dock without waiting for my reply. I already know what she has in mind.
Legs shaking, I head for the locker room. I close the door and lean my head against it for a brief moment. From the other side of the wood I hear the first notes of ‘Round Here’. Amy and I listened to it endlessly the year we turned sixteen. No song could ever be more ours.
Nostalgia washes over me as I slowly undress. I scan myself in the mirror on the wall. A TV job has made me vain enough to hire a personal trainer. For all its shallowness, I take great pleasure in spotting a hint of tricep when I watch myself back on screen. I run a finger over my arm, but can’t begin to imagine what it will feel like when it will be Amy’s finger. I know that I somehow need to steel myself for what’s to come. But it’s just me and a towel in a dressing room. And a slew of ragged memories.
I wrap myself in the plush cotton of the towel. It’s wide enough to cover me from the top of my breasts to under my knees and long enough to fit snugly around my body. I take a deep breath before stepping back into the therapy room.
Amy waits for me with a big smile, Adam Duritz’s voice humming in the background. I may have dreamed of a situation
“Why don’t we get on with it.” She places her cup on a small table next to the chair she sits in, one leg folded over the other. She looks at me, her eyes almost watery now, and in that one glance I see it. In that instant, I realise she always knew. “I give a mean massage, even if I do say so myself.” She erases the moment with a quip and a smile and I don’t know what to think.
The words massage and Amy seem to flash in my mind in big red letters. My brain can’t process the two of them together, as if it has neatly shelved any physicality away from the memory of Amy.
This morning when I drove past The Body Spa in my rental car, it just looked like a good place to book a massage. Now, it seems to have become a feverish dream location from puberty. A throwback to a time in my life I remember fondly, but don’t revisit very often.
“Sure.” I get up and we stand shoulder to shoulder, just like years ago in gym class.
“This way.” Was that a tremble in Amy’s voice?
Our arms brush together and, despite being fully dressed, it still has an instant impact on the flow of blood in my veins.
“It’s only a massage,” I tell myself. I treat myself to one every weekend. Usually, I nod off about halfway through to wake up invigorated after. Usually, the person administering the massage is Raj, a man with golden hands whom I’m not attracted to in the slightest.
The situation is quite different today, because, no matter how I twist or turn it—no matter how many years have passed—Amy is still that dark-haired girl who walked to school with me every single day of our senior year. She’s a woman now, but twenty years ago, my heart beat in my throat every time she waited for me at the corner of the street. Emotions I deemed erased by life a long time ago, seep back inside my brain as we walk to the therapy room.
And I know what comes next. I’m a massage aficionado and, usually, I don’t even think twice about it. It’s second nature to me and massages are simply not a clothed activity.
“You can undress over there.” Amy points to a door. “You’ll find a towel. Please take everything off.”
She might as well have planted a kiss on my lips, that’s how flushed I suddenly feel.
Amy’s tone is professional though, as is her demeanour. She adjusts the volume of the music in the room. “Do you mind if I put on something a bit unconventional for a place like this?”
I shake my head as she locks her iPhone in the dock without waiting for my reply. I already know what she has in mind.
Legs shaking, I head for the locker room. I close the door and lean my head against it for a brief moment. From the other side of the wood I hear the first notes of ‘Round Here’. Amy and I listened to it endlessly the year we turned sixteen. No song could ever be more ours.
Nostalgia washes over me as I slowly undress. I scan myself in the mirror on the wall. A TV job has made me vain enough to hire a personal trainer. For all its shallowness, I take great pleasure in spotting a hint of tricep when I watch myself back on screen. I run a finger over my arm, but can’t begin to imagine what it will feel like when it will be Amy’s finger. I know that I somehow need to steel myself for what’s to come. But it’s just me and a towel in a dressing room. And a slew of ragged memories.
I wrap myself in the plush cotton of the towel. It’s wide enough to cover me from the top of my breasts to under my knees and long enough to fit snugly around my body. I take a deep breath before stepping back into the therapy room.
Amy waits for me with a big smile, Adam Duritz’s voice humming in the background. I may have dreamed of a situation
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