wonderfoot

i live it, then i write it. erm. trying my hand at humor. we shall see.


It’s Sunday night and there is a Chinese woman on my back.
She’s wearing a pink top, floral-printed pedal pushers and is straddling me from behind.
“It too hard?” she asks.
“Mupphrsgg,” I reply, trying to catch a breath.
I lay prostrate. My face is being smashed into the little hole at the head of the massage chair as this woman kneads my skin like pie dough. She puts the full weight of her body into it. My shoulder blades are on fire. I think she must have found a way to get beneath bone and muscle and is just squeezing my innards back and forth like when I used to cram Play Doh into that spaghetti machine.
That’s it.
I am Play Doh.
She is the spaghetti machine.
“It too hard?” she asks again, while strategically placing two thumbs just below my ears and lifting my head up until I can feel a slight throbbing at the base of my skull.
“No,” I manage to whisper. “It’s fine.”
I will not cry.