The Massage Therapist's Touch
"Corine's hands have healed countless clients. When a new regular books weekly appointments for stress he can't name, she discovers some tension requires more than massage."
Healing Hands Spa has been mine for fifteen years.
Deep tissue, Swedish, hot stone—I do it all. I'm Corine, fifty-six, the woman with hands that read bodies.
"I need a standing appointment."
The man at reception looks worn. Something beyond physical.
"What are you seeking help with?"
"Everything." He meets my eyes. "I don't know where to start."
His name is Marcus.
CEO of something, recently widowed, carrying grief in every muscle. His body tells stories his mouth won't.
"Your shoulders," I note during the first session. "You hold everything here."
"I've been told."
"And your lower back. You're bracing for impact."
"What impact?"
"You tell me."
Sessions become weekly.
Then twice weekly. The physical tension releases, but something remains.
"You're holding emotion," I finally say.
"Is that your professional opinion?"
"It's my observation." My hands find the knot below his shoulder blade. "You can't massage away grief."
"Then why do I keep coming back?"
"Why do you?"
It's session twelve. The question hangs in the treatment room.
"Because you're the only person who touches me." His voice cracks. "Since she passed. You're the only human contact I have."
"Marcus..."
"I know. It's pathetic. Paying to be touched." He exhales. "But I've forgotten what it feels like otherwise."
"It's not pathetic."
I stop the massage. Sit beside the table.
"Humans need touch. Need connection." I take his hand—unprofessional, but necessary. "Grief doesn't stop that. It amplifies it."
"Then what do I do?"
"You learn to let someone in." My thumb traces his palm. "Not just for an hour a week."
"Will you teach me?"
His eyes are vulnerable in ways I've never seen from clients.
"That's not part of my services—"
"I'm not asking for services." He sits up, sheet around his waist. "I'm asking you. Corine. The person behind the hands."
The first real touch is after hours.
My spa closed, just us in the treatment room. His hands finding my face the way mine have found his body.
"I don't know how to do this anymore," he admits.
"Neither do I." I lean into his palm. "Let's figure it out together."
We figure it out in my office.
On the couch where I do consultations, his body over mine, no table between us.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
"Yes." I pull him closer. "Finally yes."
His hands are learning.
Tracing my curves, exploring the body I use to heal others.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
"I'm not—"
"You're everything." He kisses my belly. "Let me show you."
His mouth finds me and I grip the couch.
Tentative at first, then more confident. Learning what makes me respond.
"There?"
"Yes. Don't stop."
He doesn't stop.
When he enters me, we're both healing.
"So good," he groans.
"Take what you need." I wrap around him. "I'm here."
He takes. He gives. We meet in the middle.
Afterward, on my consultation couch, he holds me.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing past the client." He pulls me closer. "For touching the person underneath."
"That's what I do—"
"No." He cups my face. "That's who you are."
Marcus becomes my partner.
In life, eventually in business. We open a wellness center together—healing of all kinds.
"Conflict of interest?" someone asks.
"Mutual healing," I correct.
The wedding is at the spa.
After hours, treatment rooms transformed. My hands in his, finally not working.
"To the woman who healed me," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who let me," I counter.
We kiss while essential oils diffuse.
Some tensions require massage.
Some require more.
And some therapists find that the most healing touch is the one that stays.
Pressure released.
Love applied.
Forever.