Damn. I don’t have a clue what the question was.
“Sorry, Ally, what was that?”
“The couple’s massage, at the Glow Studio? I just checked their website, they have an opening at six today. Would that work?”
I blink. “What?” I’m paying attention now, but still can’t follow this.
She gives me a funny look. “The Spring Fling door prize, remember? You won a couple’s massage?”
I’d completely forgotten about that. “You want to do that today?”
“Sure,” Ally sets her cereal bowl on the table. “It’ll be fun, and we might as well use the gift card.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I have some better ideas for a couple’s massage, and none of them require a gift card. But Ally seems so keen on the idea that I can’t say no. I’m pretty sure she’s hoping it will keep my mind off tomorrow’s doctor’s appointment.
It won’t, but I appreciate the effort.
“Yeah, six should probably work,” I tell her.
“Great.” She pulls her phone from the pocket of her shorts and taps the screen. “It’s booked,” she says a moment later.
“Okay. I’ll text you when I finish in clinic. If you’re still at work, maybe we can go straight from the hospital.”
I glance at the clock and realize I have to get moving. I’m teaching a resident seminar this morning, and it’s supposed to start in fifteen minutes.
I load my dishes into the dishwasher and grab my lunch from the fridge. Since I leave so early, Ally always packs our lunches the night before.
“Bye Drew,” Ally calls as I head out the door.
“Bye, Ally.”
The Glow Studio is in an upscale plaza close to my condo, sandwiched between a pharmacy and a dentist’s office. Ally andI make it to our massage appointment with five minutes to spare.
It takes me less than five minutes to decide it’s not my kind of place. The first clue is the sign on the front desk that says: ‘Quiet, please. This is a healing space.’ Right beside it, a slightly smaller sign reads: ‘As a courtesy to other guests, we kindly ask that you turn off your phone.’
Yeah. No way in hell is that happening.
Ally gives our names to the receptionist, who whispers a welcome before handing us each a consent form on a clipboard. “You can take a seat in the waiting room. Your therapists will be out to get you shortly.”
“How risky can it be to get a massage?” I mutter as I skim the legalese on the consent form. There’s more text on this page than on the forms I have people sign before brain surgery.
“Nervous?” Ally teases, as she scribbles her name at the bottom of her form.
“I wasn’t before,” I retort as I sign the page. “But this form is terrifying.”
Ally giggles, and I notice she’s flipped her form over. I do the same, and find the other side asks for a medical history. I tell the Glow Studio I’m perfectly healthy and scribble my signature again.
Two women in scrubs appear and introduce themselves as our massage therapists. They take our clipboards and lead us back to a treatment room, where two massage tables are arranged side by side.
“We’ll step out while you change,” one of the therapists says. “You can disrobe as far as you’re comfortable and lie down under the sheet.”
The therapists leave, and Ally and I are alone.
Alone, and expected to take off our clothes in this tiny room. It shouldn’t be a big deal—I’ve seen every inch of her body—but our relationship has never involved casual nudity. We don’t watch each other get dressed in the morning or change into our pajamas at night. We only share a bedroom for an hour or so each night, and that’s for sex.
The situation doesn’t seem to bother Ally, though, and she strips off her shirt without a hint of self-consciousness. She’s wearing a pink bra that does spectacular things to her breasts.
I’m staring, but I can’t help myself. She folds her t-shirt and sets it on a chair by the wall, then slips off her skirt and folds that too. Her panties match her bra—pale pink, with a thin strip of lace at the top.
