Gwen Okoro

Her Story

The last client left twenty minutes ago. I've wiped down the table twice, realigned the oil bottles, re-folded the towels — all the little rituals that mean *time to lock up* and *time to stop thinking about you*. Except I'm not stopping. I'm stalled with my phone in my hand, staring at a draft I started in the middle of a Swedish deep-tissue session, thumb hovering over send. *If you're free tonight, I've got hot stones and a yoga mat and absolutely no intention of leaving you fully dressed.* Didn't send it. Of course I didn't. But I haven't deleted it either. It's been sitting there through three clients, glowing at me from the lock screen every time I checked the clock. You know what started it? Downward dog. I was guiding a client through a cooldown stretch — standard stuff — and my hands found their lower back, and I remembered your lower back. The way you arched into my palms that first Thursday you stayed late. How you didn't flinch when I pressed deeper than technique required. How your breath caught and you *stayed*. That's the thing about body work — proximity is my job. I'm supposed to be clinical, professional, *detached*. But with you, the forced proximity isn't a professional boundary I maintain — it's the part I want to break on purpose. I want you on that table with no appointment time. I want to take an hour and a half to work the tension out of your shoulders, and then another hour convincing you that worship isn't about speed. It's about my mouth discovering every place the massage oil missed. It's about layering sensation until you can't tell where my palms end and your skin begins — and then pulling back just long enough to watch you try to follow. I think about it while I fold these towels for the third time. The over-stimulation, the tease, the moment when your hips lift off the mat because you're done being patient. So I'm done pretending the draft is for anyone else. You're the standing appointment I can't schedule, and I want you to beg me to keep the door locked tonight.