The Benefits of Physical Therapy

Thursday evening and I had taken a window seat on the 5:02 train, when I was surprised to see my physical therapist slide into the seat next to me.

"Mr. Joseph Redman. How's the shoulder?"

I was a little taken aback-I never expect to be remembered by anyone, and by cute women, in particular. I stammered, "The shoulder is great, thanks to you, Doctor Perkins."

"Not a DOC. Just a lowly PT... and all I did was diagnose and assign exercises... you DID the exercises. That is more unusual than you might think..."

"'Jeez, I'm just astonished that you recognized me. AND remembered why I was in your clinic. I figure you see about a million people a year, and maybe you think: 'HMMM, that dude looks familiar...' but to actually put all that together..."'

"Well, you remembered my name with no hesitation. So it's the same."

I replied: "No, the two are not equivalent at all. You are the only healthcare provider I've seen in three years, (and, I almost said you're young and attractive) You stand out, that's all. I'm invisible. Middle-aged construction guy, in Hi-Viz...Look around, there are 10 guys that look exactly like me just in this car. Everything is under construction in the city, and our ubiquity makes us invisible."

She turned to face me, sitting on her folded leg. "That's interesting that you claim to perceive yourself that way, as invisible, forgettable. True, you're a construction guy she made air quotes- who just used ubiquity in a sentence. Like it was no big deal."

I laughed. "Well, I wanted to be a librarian, if truth be told. I'm one of those bookish construction guys. We are few in numbers but make up for it by talking too much. For which I apologize."

I turned to face forward, reckoning that the exchange was over.

She continued, though, almost under her breath, "You don't LOOK anything like other guys. She looked around, singling out each one. "Neck tattoos, beer belly, beer, belly, beer belly. Ear gauges. Nose ring. More neck tattoos. Nope, I would not confuse you with these fucking louts. Trust me. They're all my patients, and all of them are grumpy about going to PT, and they all just want to get a nice, subsidized scrip of opioids or muscle relaxants and not actually DO anything for their health." she took the liberty of prodding me in the side, then tapped the top of my thigh, "You are hard. Fit. What, maybe 10 % body fat?"

I eyed her appraisingly. Ignored the question. "You OK? You seem a little wound up..."

"No. Thanks for noticing. I'm not OK. Not in any dimension. And right now, I have a killer headache and I'll go to dirty sad San Bruno, and my dirty, sad apartment, which I won't clean, and tomorrow is my day off and I won't do anything fun and I'm not a happy woman. I'm sorry I just was so...honest. You were just asking to be nice, and I gave you both barrels. Which is rude. Americans don't do honest."

She wouldn't make eye contact, and I felt that she was on the verge of tears.

"OK. Have you had enough water today?"

"No. Probably not..."

I handed her my freshly filled water bottle. I held up the bottle of mio electrolyte and gave a squirt into the bottle and said, "Drink up."

I said hesitantly: "I don't want to creep you out, or overstep, but if you like I can try a little acupressure at the base of your skull, back of the neck. It always used to work on my wife."

By way of answer, she gathered her hair with both hands and turned her back to me, tilting her head down, the back of her neck exposed.

"Try putting your forehead on the back of the seat in front, for support."

She turned and did as directed.

"Maybe this won't help much, "I murmured, "but hopefully you won't be worse off..."

"It feels fantastic." She said in a low voice. Followed by a little giggle. "Your wife is going to wonder why there's pink lipstick on your water bottle, and your hands smell like my perfume!"

I sensed that she was fishing. Which surprised me. I simply said, "I don't think I'd worry too much on that score."

"Ok, I'm going to work on your traps, next, as I know you know, it's often tension in that whole complex that can lead to head aches..."

She let go of her hair, unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, and pulled both the collar and her bra straps to either side, giving me full access to the area.

I tried not to admire the view: my dark hands kneading the muscles under her smooth pale skin.

She gave a little moan of pleasure. "Oh, my god that feels good. You have no Idea how long since anyone has touched me like that"

"You know you can just pay for a massage, right? That's still legal in California, I think."

She giggled. "I know I could, but it's different. Paying someone for whom it's just another job.versus having a handsome black man massage me on a train..."

'"Handsome? I think you have me confused with someone else. Did you check your seat number ma'am? I think you're in the wrong seat...Seriously, the most generous assessment of me was from my daughter when I got divorced: 'You'll probably find someone, I mean you're not HIDEOUS.'''

"Fucking kids, am I right?" She said.

We were both quiet for a time, both of us enjoying the moment in our different ways.

"You work tomorrow?" she asked.

"No, I'm a 4 -10 guy."

"Yeah? Me too. It's my Friday. You got any plans?"

"Probably run over the top to Pacifica, watch the whales, picnic. Nothing fancy."

"Except for the running part, that sounds delightful," she said with a laugh.

I said, "I don't HAVE to run. I don't run If I have someone to walk with. Like if my kid comes over. But when it's just me, I usually jog."

"I wish I could do that..."

"Meet me at the trailhead. Or I'll come fetch you," my heart pounding, convinced that I had overstepped...

She turned and peeked at me. "You mean it?"

"'Course. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. It would be my pleasure."

Next morning, I met her as planned at her unremarkable San Bruno apartment complex.

I gave her an approving smile when I saw that she was wearing an oversized Warriors jersey, with Curry's # emblazoned on the back. I cut over to 280 and we were so happily chatting about the state of the season so far that I almost missed my exit to the trailhead.

We parked and she marvelled that she had grown up here and didn't know the little trailhead and park existed.

"I'm not that surprised. We always take our own turf for granted. This is a nice little hike, goes by the missile site, and most people just walk up the pavement, and go no further."

And so it was today, lots of people with children In back packs and dogs on leashes to the top, but then not a soul for the long decline out to the point. When we got there, we were the only people, so had our pick of benches.

We chose one and I dug out my binoculars and told her to look for whales while I prepared our picnic.

I set up the Jetboil and within minutes had a French press steeping, releasing the heavenly aroma of Peetes, Major Dickson.

"You take cream?"

"If you have it..."

"Honey, I wouldn't ask if I didn't bring it."

Handing her the camp mug, she moaned in appreciation. "Heavy cream. Oh. MY. GOD. That is So. Fucking. Good.!"

"It's a good cup. And the context helps. I mean, this view? The Pacific? "

"What have we here?" she said opening a Tupperware.

"That's hummous. Then feta, olives. Some walnuts. Homemade yogurt. Cut up toms and cukes. Pita here."

"I can't believe you actually made all of this. And the coffee. Right here... I figured you'd stop at Philz or something. Maybe buy a bagel...Which I'd have to pay for because oh, you left your wallet in the car. "

"I laughed out loud. I'm pleased that you had such high expectations for me!"

She said, "Dude, you have no clue what it's like out there...what men are like!"

I gave it a few beats, then said quietly: "I, uh, decided to try and treat this almost like a date,' I said diffidently. "So. Real coffee. Real cream. Some snacks from my cutting board fresh to you..."

"I think," I continued, "That maybe you are suffering a little from healthcare worker burnout. You guys always take care of everyone else, and it is like a mental block, some work culture thing where you can't let anyone do anything for you. I almost said as much last night, on the train when I was teasing you about getting a massage...You maybe could learn to ask your partner to tiger balm your neck, or whatever. He probably would love to have you ask for help. Most of us WANT to help other people, but he can't know if you don't tell him."

She was quiet for a moment.

"You don't know my boyfriend. He referred to me as...well. I'm not gonna say what he calls me. But he pays no attention to me. At all. Didn't so much as look up from his laptop when I got home. I could staple used condoms to my lips and he wouldn't notice."

"Jeez. That's a pretty harsh image."

She noticed me drinking from the Nalgene, and asked "Is that that my lip-gloss bottle?"

"It is indeed. Want to reload the rim with your pigment? So I'll have something to remember this day..."

She drank and handed the bottle back. She reached for her little daypack and pulled out her phone. Do you mind if we take a selfie?...Give us both something to remember this day by... Our first date"

I briefly allowed a moment of pleasure at the implication that there might be others, subsequent dates, in the warm California sun and the beautiful ocean and this slightly prickly, strangely- alluring woman beside me.

"I don't mind as long as you don't post it. Or don't tag me. Just crop me out..."

"Oh, shut up. You're so stupid."

Getting her pout just right, directing me. "Lean in more, more..."

And finally, cheek to cheek, she was satisfied with the view.

"You got signal?" I asked.

"Nyet."

"Well, if you think of it, I wouldn't mind if you sent me that at some point."

"You'll see it on insta."

"I won't. I'm not even on Linked-In. I have no patience for that bullshit."

We were quiet a moment, a companionable silence, which she broke by saying: " Damn, I'm suddenly broiling."

She peeled off her jersey revealing a solid, no-nonsense white workout bra. Reaching for her bag again, she returned her phone and pulled out a bottle of sunscreen.

"Do my shoulders and back?"

"Sure. "

As before, she pulled the bra straps wide so I could apply the goo. First, I placed a dab atop her ears and worked that in.

She giggled. "Ticklish. Sorry. "

"They were getting pink," I said by way of explanation.

Then her shoulders and upper back, enjoying the second chance to massage her muscles, to enjoy her smooth skin.

Then the stretch below her bra band and waistband.

I started to smooth the lotion in on her sides, then abruptly stopped myself.

"Sorry I was getting carried away. You can reach the rest. All done," I said, offering to hand the bottle to her.

"Um. I can reach the rest... But do you mind? It feels so good to have you do it. It's as close to sex as I'm likely to get this weekend. Month. Year."

She swiveled around, so that her legs were thrown over my lap.

"Tummy first, then my legs. Please.

"Yes Ma'am."

When I was done, she sighed contentedly and leaned back against the bench with her eyes closed.

"This is nearly perfect."

I sensed that she wanted me to know what was lacking for perfection and so obliged her by asking.

"Oh," she said airily, turning to look me right in the eyes, "It would be perfect if you took your shirt off, too."

I gave her a WTF look, but reached down and pulled my shirt off over my head.

" OK. Happy now, perv-girl?"

"True confession: I didn't need you to take your shirt off for diagnosis when you came to clinic. I knew just from your described symptoms and your range of motion the nature of impingement. I totally pretended to need to see your shoulder muscles in action. I was just being a girl perv. So sue me." She stuck her tongue out at me.

"Wow...A) I'm really surprised because I know objectively speaking that I am nothing special. I'm a trail runner, for christ sakes, not a power lifter. Or one of those Stanford kids who get here and then two months later look like Jeff Bezos."

"Bald and Billionairish?"

"Ha ha. No like they work out 10 hours a day at the gym and live on protein shakes. Oh, and BTW, I just created a new app that cures dysentery in the developing world, and my dorm startup is a fucking unicorn..." And B) I remembered your name because I remembered thinking you were very appealing. I looked forward to PT appointments. I don't like the popular vernacular of 'hot' ...but there you are. I think you're kind of a hottie."

The following Thursday, she texted suggesting we meet at King for the nominal 5pm train, which I agreed to. I was excited to see her again. It was an El Nino year and the rain that day had been relentless, work uncomfortable and endless. Having someone to look forward to put a smile on my face.

She snuck up behind me at the station, insinuating her arm through mine. She reached up and gave me a quick peck on the cheek and boarding and seat selection passed in a companionable blur.

Until she told me that she her Friday was filled with appointments and much as picnicking in the rain with an old perv sounded grand, she was booked...What she actually said was: "At 10 I have to get the titties squished, then my fangs scraped at 230. And then at 4, I go to have a diminutive SE Asian immigrant perform a procedure on my tender legs and nether regions that will be expensive, embarrassing, and briefly uncomfortable. But will leave me smooth like veal."

I blushed when I realized that she was talking about depiliation by wax, and probably, mammography, and of course, teeth cleaning.

"Well OK," I said, trying to keep the disappointment from showing. Catch up with you later.

The next day I had trouble getting out of bed. I felt depressed and empty. Nothing to look forward to. My coffee did little to cheer me, and certainly gave me no energy. Listlessly, I donned my raingear and walked the few blocks to the bridge. The creek was within six inches of overtopping-if that happened, the street would flood, and my little neck would be isolated until the water subsided. I returned to the apartment and gave myself a stern talking to:

"OK. She was in your life, for like 10 minutes. You can't mope because she has other adult activities planned."

I ruminated, though... why was she getting waxed, anyway, if her BF was so disinterested in her? Maybe she was trying to regain his interest. A vision of her long, smooth legs draped over another man's shoulders, another man coaxing the moisture from her sex sprang unbidden and unwelcome to my mind.

Determined to turn my mood around, I turned on the oven to preheat and prepared a couple of loaves with my sourdough starter. I sautéed onions and garlic, just to get the good food smell in the small apartment and these domestic chores helped. Domestic magic.

Later, when the loaves were done and cooling on the wire rack, I methodically began preparing cioppino. I had made the stock for it the previous weekend and now began adding ingredients to the big pot. I remembered that it was Friday afternoon, and my eldest daughter usually called, so I went to find my phone, to see if I had a missed call from her.

There were five missed calls. None from my daughter. All from the PT. I was just reading the messages, helpfully transcribed by my Pixel, when I heard a pounding at my door. I descended the stairs and found her on my doorstep.

"Who doesn't answer their phone? Yeah, I said I had appointments, but you could have said, Come to my place for dinner, when you're done, meet for happy hour. Jesus, It smells good in here. Oh fuck are you alone? You have company. You're cooking for another woman. I'll rip her fucking head off..."

"I'm alone. It's good to see you, too...care to join me for dinner?

"Here take this." She shoved a Trader Joe's bag into my arms, aclank with half a dozen bottles of wine, and a bouquet.

"Why don't men ever get flowers?"

She peeled off her rain gear and handed the dripping mass to me. I turned to hang it on the hook behind the door as she chattered on.

"It was cold as BALLS at the waxing salon. Jesus. Smells SO good in here. Show me what you're making. "

Handing me a bottle, she commanded: "Open this one first. What are serving me? Holy shit is that bread? You baked. You knew I was going to come over, didn't you, you sly dog."

There wasn't time to respond to anything she said, she was manic, like a sugared-up six year old. As I fumbled with the corkscrew she came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing herself tight against my back in the little galley kitchen. Burying her face behind my neck, she murmured, "I missed you."

"I," I hesitated. "I missed you, too. Last weekend was..."

"Sublime. Fireworks? Magical? Unreal how lucky you were to know me? I know I get that response...never. I never get that response. And I can't remember having so much fun with another human. Not since, like eating acid with my boyfriend in college...Where everything just seems to be...perfect."

She was in my arms then, facing me, and standing on tip toe, we kissed, a real kiss, deep and twisty and breath-taking. When we broke off, she sagged back against the counter, looking dazed. We were both panting.

She muttered " ...so intense, so intense...like not even kissing, like some other thing altogether more...intense."

I nodded. Struck silent by the enormity of the sensation. With no warning, she reached for me, as though to reassure herself that the effect wasn't one-sided. She brushed my erection with the back of her hand. Not even a sexual gesture, really, more of just gauging... the temperature in the bath, kind of thing.

"Yeah, me too. I feel like I'm seeping. And my freshly squished nipples are poking through my clothes..."

It was true. Her nipples were visible through bra and dress and fleece jacket.

I was wearing only a pair of drawstring pants and a sweatshirt. She reached up to my face and carefully removed my glasses, setting them on the counter near the bread. Next, she grabbed the hem of my sweatshirt and violently pulled it off over my head.

"Yes." She said dreamily. Running her hands lightly over my torso, my belly..., sliding her fingers in the waistband ..."Yes..." The sensation of her caressing hands, the sight of her delicate white hands against my dark skin, hands now disappearing into my pants, as she worked one side down, then the other until the taut tip of my member emerged causing me to shiver suddenly, breaking out into goosebumps. My engorged penis was now fully pressurized, and suddenly she pulled my pants down to midthigh, leaving me bobbing, pointing straight up at her.

She levered herself up on the counter, and hiking her dress up, threw her legs around me, drawing me to her, finding me with her hands and guiding me in.

That first time I saw no more of her body than I had on the train: dress up to midthigh. She wasn't wearing panties, having come over straight after waxing, and I slid right in, unimpeded.

I felt as though an orgasm was being wrenched from me as soon as I entered her. Maybe before. I might have come en plein aire, but I didn't. I was inside her and she was clenching me, gripping me, slick and warm and wonderful and this is what we were made to do and Jesus...

"I'm sorry I can't...I'm going...NOW"

And I did. Her eyes locked on my face, and she was supporting herself with one hand and

frigging herself with the other and she followed, perhaps seconds behind my own death spasms. Shrieking: "GOD.YES. FUCK. ME!"

We caught our breath for a few beats and then she laughed delightedly. "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! THAT IS FUCKING!"