of attraction. Not between people, but toward a purpose, an end point.

This is an experiment, so here goes …

The Door

The sign was for a new style of massage, with an image of strong masculine hands shaped to knead muscles. Hands with no callouses, short nails, no hair. A man’s knowing hands, ready to start work.

Marise moved closer. She didn’t recognise the hands, but the interior decoration was familiar. Too familiar. It couldn’t be. He’d left town a decade ago, and he’d sworn to return only when hell froze hard enough to knock sense into her.

And the weather wasn’t that bad, so it couldn’t be, but how could she be certain? She took another step closer to read the smaller text on the sign.

The details were professional. An experienced sports masseur, years of experience in Europe. That meant it wasn’t him. Not the man who hated to travel anywhere he didn’t know where the road led. In that way, they’d been alike, but after the accident, after his horrid words to her, he’d left. She’d stayed.

And she needed a good massage to break the tension in the muscles that still wanted to rip her broken body to pieces with constant pain and inflammation.

“Hi, Marise! Nice to see you about again.”

Marise sighed. “Hi, Nina. Yes, I was recommended to the new masseur.” Maybe the biggest gossip in town would know his name. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Oh, yes.” She beamed and pointed toward the carpark across the road from the medical suites. “Jack and I have been coming for two months now. It’s great. Jack’s walking without the stick again. Well, most days. And he’s so relieved that it wasn’t another of those over-hyped jobs we’ve seen so often lately.” She beamed again. “You want to talk to him? He’s over there, taking a new lot of pot-plants to the car.”

“No, thanks, Nina. I’ll go in and get a brochure and see what they do.” Or should she get more info first? “What’s his name, do you know?”

“Oh, yes. Dreamy, too. Mike Asaza. Sounds like a god, yes. Go on in. You’ll be delightfully surprised, I promise you.”

The bright red door beckoned. Sun glinted on the chrome handle. Marise nodded, pushed open the gate, clacked the walking frame onto the crazy-paved slate path. Two minutes later, she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” he said “Door’s open.”

The door opened, the darkness beckoned, his voice lilted through the spring day with the promise of rose petals and buzzing bees. He was back, and hell nowhere in sight.

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Update on progress, or lack of …

Do you really want to know? Okay. Broken thumb and wrist. Right hand. Yes, I am a righty, now learning left. Not easy, not quick, but gotta do what’s gotta get done, right? Which means I’m around, but avoiding the pain that comes with the use of said appendage and digit. [insert swearing, cos it’s hard to type!]

Cheers, see you next week.