“I’m turning your bed into a massage table.”
I go into his bathroom and open the bathroom cabinet door.
Florian follows me. “You don’t?—”
I see the enema kit.
I freeze.
Florian freezes.
I yank three towels from the cabinet and pretend I didn’t see the enema kit.
I walk past Florian and pretend that I am not the least bit affected by his super amazing presence and I pretend that I am not affected by his super amazing scent.
Of course it doesn’t work.
I lay one towel on the bed, then another.
“This is silly,” Florian says.
“Your pain is not silly,” I say. “I can make you feel better. Please let me. It is my job.”
His fingers clench into fists.
He is not pleased with me.
I sigh. “Florian. Why didn’t you want me to give you a massage when we first met?”
His face reddens. “It is not important.”
“Your health is important.”
“You are always asking to give me a massage. Massage, massage, massage.”
My eyes widen.
His eyes widen.
He sighs. “I am sorry. It is embarrassing. I do not like being embarrassed.” He assesses me. “Lately I amalways embarrassed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is not your fault. It is mine.” He chews his bottom lip. He looks hunched and defeated.
I shouldn’t press him.
I shouldn’t.
And I’m just about to tell him that, when he says, “I did not leave because I was... disgusted. I left because I was—my body was?—”
He stares at the floor, his jaw tight.
Oh.
Oh.
I think back over that day. He was rigid. He was face-down the whole time, and when I asked him to turn around?—
