Physical Therapy
The therapist is half my age, but twice my size. He stands so close I can make out the threads on his polo shirt, so close he surely can whiff the liquid soap called Sensual I used that morning in the shower.
On a scale of 1 through 10, he asks, how bad is your pain today?
9, I lie. Because it feels so good the way he commands me to lie down on the vinyl bed. Stretches my legs. Lifts my hips. Pushes my knees into my chest. Tells me to push back. Harder. Harder.
At the end of the hour I put the forty-dollar co-pay on my husband's credit card. And as I walk out of the clinic on my shaky ankles I remember how, when he held me upright on the pivot board, he told me to fix my gaze on the wall to find my balance. But I closed my eyes so I could better hear his voice in my ear: Don't worry. I got you.
Sunday Night & Monday Morning
Sunday night. While my husband's supposedly busting his nuts at the gym, I shave the pills off my cashmere sweaters with his Gillette Fusion.
Monday morning. When the razor slices into his chin, I think, Your turn to cry now.
