There isn't an elevator, and my client is on the sixth floor. The staircase is narrow and winding, as so many in Paris are. The smell of baking bread mixes with a spicy, pungent odor, floating from under a door. In a little over an hour, I'll be home. My Japanese futon is rolled into a knapsack, the extra weight bending me forward. I'm thankful the session is shiatsu; I don't have to lug my table up the stairs.

When I arrive on the sixth floor, my face and chest are damp. I twist free from the knapsack, take a Kleenex from my pocket, and wipe between my breasts. I'm a few minutes early, I have time to catch my breath. There's only one apartment, under eaves so narrow there's just the door. A bicycle leans against the wall, and a tall potted fiscus sucks sunshine from the windowpane. A welcome mat sits with three pairs of sneakers, toes to the wall. I slip mine off and place them to the side.

When I ring the doorbell, it opens before I've lowered my hand. I understand; I was being watched through the tiny hole in the door. I don't see this as the first red flag.

"Bonjour! Paul?"

"Oui, entrez." Come in. He doesn't ask my name.

I step into the apartment, and the varnished wood floor groans beneath my feet. He studies my face but doesn't speak. I can't see the color of his eyes, can only imagine them. Flat and dark. His silk robe clings.

"Ah, monsieur?" My voice is a rasp; I clear my throat. The door is right behind me. I can turn around and leave.

"This is a shiatsu massage. You must be dressed."

"Use oil then," he says.

"I practice acupressure, sir. I can send you someone else if you'd like.""I'm fine like this," he says.

"No, I'm sorry, you're not. Clients for this massage must be dressed." He was new to me, a business partner of a friend. As an in-home therapist, I practice only shiatsu when the client is a man.

Paul's eyes lock on mine. I allow them to stay. He turns away. When he disappears, I release my breath.

A leather armchair, a vintage poster of Ziggy Stardust, a plush beige couch. The apartment is small; the living room and kitchen blend into one. A candle burns in the corner, its heavy jasmine fragrance trying to mask the lingering scent of Lysol. And of something else.

The place is immaculate. Cushions, like soldiers, line the length of the couch. Not a crease, not a dent. I blow out the flame, the chemical smell tightening my skull in a vise. I move the coffee and side tables to make room for the futon and lower myself to the floor. I don't hear him come into the room, but I know he's there. I ignore him, focus on my ritual. Experience has taught me that. I arrange the towels and headrest and roll back onto the balls of my feet. Only then do I raise my head.

He's changed into sweats and a t-shirt; his feet are bare.

"Lie on your stomach, please." My voice is no-nonsense, and the man, Paul, obeys.

And for a moment, I believe it'll be okay.

I place my hands between his shoulder blades, straighten my upper body and arms, ready to push my thumbs into his back. He rolls away and jumps to his feet. Moving to the door, he turns two bolts and slides a chain.

The pulse in my throat jumps; I feel it move my skin. A shift in the air makes my hair stand on end.

He's just making sure we're not disturbed.

But I know better.

A man concerned for my safety would have asked me my name. A man who respects boundaries doesn't have to be told twice to dress. I keep my breath even, focus on my Japanese futon.

"Lie back down, please."

He obeys.

​

A strange man in a locked room.

​

I have to believe I'm safe.

After working a few minutes along his shoulders, I shift to the side of his body to apply pressure using my elbows. I rock the point of my elbow along the length of his spine, opening and closing my arm on each point.

He groans, and his fingers splay on the floor.

"Too strong?"

"No."

I continue the pressure, repeat the schema.

He shifts on the futon. A subtle movement -- his hips press into the floor.

I pause.

He lies still.

I continue the massage.

When I'm back to his shoulder blades, he arches his back. Presses again into the futon. Grinds himself against the eggplant-purple towel I've covered it with. A color I chose for awareness and peace.

I rock back on my heels. My face and hands burn. A tendril of panic coils in my throat.

His hand snakes around my ankle.

I hadn't seen it move.

An iron grip.

One snap of his wrist, and I'll be on the floor.

My eyes are frantic. A lamp, a book, a candlestick. But I had moved everything to make room for my Japanese futon.

I don't look away from his arms and hands. My body is tense, my breath still.

I allow the sound of him grinding my futon to fill the room.

His grip slides down my ankle.

I stop breathing.

He falls asleep.

Inch by inch, I stand. My knees crack. His breath stays even.

I reach across his body for my bag, lifting it straight up and over. It's heavy, but I don't sway.

Sliding on my socks, I move backward to the door.

Take a deep breath.

Turn away from the man on my Japanese futon.

Slide the chain open, turn the knob of each lock, and leave.

The air on the landing is stale, and I hold my breath as I hurry down the stairs.

My back is unburdened by my Japanese futon, but the weight has shifted.

Publications