“Oh my God,” I say.
His eyes slam shut.
“Florian,” I say. “That is a normal bodily reaction. You are a healthy man.”
“I did not get aroused in Mannheim,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I say. “You can get aroused.”
“What if I?—?”
“Then we use your tissues.” I elbow him. “It’s fine.” I raise my eyes. “You know, I’m a gay man too. Not—” I hesitate. “Not that I’m thinking about that when I—” I swallow hard.
Okay.
It’s not necessarily ideal to be a gay massage therapist. I was surprised when the Blizzards hired me, even though it was my dream job, and even though I was qualified.
“I mean—” I chew on my bottom lip. “When I give a massage, I’m thinking about muscles and how they connect. I’m thinking about tension and how to best release it. It’s like a giant human puzzle cube. I’m not thinking about… sex.”
A pulse throbs in his neck.
Florian is a virgin, and I’m talking to him about sex.
“Sorry,” I say.
Florian looks confused.
“I just mean that I get it, you know? I can imagine being in your position. It’s okay. It’s fine. I don’t care.”
Florian looks uncertain.
“Undress,” I say.
His eyes flare, before he looks away.
Then he removes his t-shirt.
He removes his socks.
He removes his trousers.
His boxer briefs remain on.
I pick up a towel. “I’ll massage around this. Like last time. Get on the bed.”
He does so.
He’s lying flat on his bed. The same bed where we slept side by side.
My hands steady. I know how to give a massage.
I refuse to be sad about the fact that Florian regained his memory. Florian is wonderful. He deserves his memory. He deserves to be able to play again.
But I still miss the before-times, when Florian probably would be comforting me.
I smile, because Florian is so sweet.
I put on some peaceful music, because maybe Florian needs something to concentrate on.
