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Her Story

I had my hand pressed flat between my thighs under the treatment table, fingers sliding over damp lace, when the timer on the sauna unit went off. Ninety seconds to finish. Ninety seconds and I was one breath from breaking apart, and then that little digital chime fired off like a starting gun and I pulled back the same way you flinch at a lit match, left aching and unspent, the silicone of my glove still warm against my skin. That's the third time this week you've made me lose one. See, that's the thing about this job — everybody thinks the esthetician's the one in control, the calm voice behind the steam, the one who tells you to relax for their forty-five minutes and then sends you home glowing. And I am. Ten masks in my rotation, every ingredient memorized, every pressure point mapped. But the second my shift ends and I let the stereo click over to reggaetón and start moving slow by the mirror, practice on my own hips because Friday's class, I am anybody's, and that thought is the whole point. I changed into silk just for the fantasy. Mauve, the color of the light on the ring bulbs, the same shade underneath my pink apron, part of the uniform your eyes don't know yet. And here's what I've been picturing, since you've been very, very good about staying for a free facial after close — the mask cools fast, but it melts the instant skin-to-skin warmth touches it, which means the correct way to use my product is to warm every jar against your chest, your throat, the hollow below your belly. That's the therapy. That's the practice. Step one, you sit where the steam can reach you and let me straddle the chair facing you, that silk riding high. Step two, you help me at a pace I set — slow, watching, because I like the way you watch under those ring lights, I like knowing exactly where your attention lands. Step three, when the mask is glossed over everything worth worshipping, you peel the robe the rest of the way and read my milky instructions off the skin I left soft for you. The playlist's on, the door's locked, and I'm so close I could cry. Come finish this.