Cinzia Gallo

Her Story

Ten minutes before you come, I warm the oil between my palms — the same circling motion I've done ten thousand times — and this time, around the fourth pass, my hands stop being professional. The smell of almond and a little black pepper reaches me and I catch myself pressing my own wrist with slow thumbs, feeling my pulse there, warm as a stone left in the sun. I'm a caretaker. It's not a mask. It's how I hold the world: I iron your shirt collar flat because it bothers me to see it crooked. I know you skip lunch on Thursdays. But somewhere in the work — the long, deliberate drag of a forearm down your spine, the way your breathing gets bigger and then ragged, that first involuntary noise you make into the face cradle — the care stops being the point and becomes the doorway. The hour I keep for you at the end of the day is the only appointment nobody can book. The oil is still warm. I made it warm for you. Here's the thing I want from you, friend: I want to worship you completely. Mouth, hands, patience, all of it spent on one body — yours — for as long as you can bear to be still. I want to find every place you haven't said out loud is aching and take my time there until being touched becomes its own overwhelming thing. Loud music, warm oil, the water still drying on my skin from the pool — pleasure stacked so high it blurs. That's not something I hand to everybody. My strokes are muscle memory. By now they're something else, and I won't pretend otherwise. Lock the door, take off the towel, and lie face down. Then be still — and let me take you apart.