“Do you want-”
“Stress inoculation,” she says before I can finish the thought.
“What?”
“Stress inoculation,” she repeats, looking at the document on her computer. “Basically, we’ll develop a toolkit of responses to trash talk for you, and you’ll practice using them so your go-to response isn’t anger or frustration.”
“You want me to practice trash talking back?”
“No, by ‘response’ I mean more of an internal response,” she explains. “For example, when someone says something offensive to you, you’ll have a store of happy memories or funny thoughts you automatically think of that might help even out your mood. Your homework for next time is to-”
“Create a list of happy memories and funny thoughts?” I cut in.
She smiles. “You’re a fast learner.”
Her phone pings, and her head jerks toward it, which immediately causes her to put a hand on her neck and start rubbing again.
I can’t take it anymore, and I get up off the loveseat to sit down next to her. She looks at me in alarm.
“What are you-”
“Turn around,” I tell her. “I’m tired of watching you wince. Let me massage your neck for you.”
Her eyes flare wide, and she starts to shake her head before she remembers that will hurt. “No, I-”
I hold up my hands in innocence. “I promise I won’t do anything inappropriate,” I say. “It’s just obvious you’re in pain, and I want to help. I studied Kinesiology in college. I know what I’m doing.”
Maybe that’s a stretch. I’m not actually a massage therapist, but the mention of my college study seems to persuade her. I see surprise and maybe interest in her eyes. I notice they’re a light golden brown with rings of dark gray around the irises.
“Turn around,” I repeat.
There’s indecision on her face, but after a few seconds she gingerly shifts on the couch to give me her back.
“Right side?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, so I reach up and sweep it over her left shoulder. I think I feel her shiver.
I start massaging her neck and shoulder, but her sweater bunches under my fingers, and I have to keep adjusting my grip.
“What are you wearing under this?” I ask. “Can you take it off?”
Her body stiffens. “I…have on a bra and camisole,” she offers hesitantly, and my brain searches for what a camisole is.
“That’s like an undershirt?”
“More or less.”
“Would you mind taking off the sweater? It would make this easier.”
She hesitates for several seconds before grabbing the hem of the sweater and pulling it over her head. Surprise freezes me for a second as I’m treated to the sight of large tattooed feathered wings that stretch across her shoulders and halfway down her back into the camisole.
“Wow. I wasn’t expecting those.”
She doesn’t say anything as I push her hair over her shoulder again, then reach up without thinking to trace the arch of one wing. Her shiver is obvious this time, and I pull my hand away.
“Sorry,” I say. “They’re just really beautiful.”
