Write about: the masseuse.
This morning Kat and I finally got around to cashing in a Christmas present from my parents, as we went for a couples massage at a local spa. Max hung out with his grandparents while we were pampered into a barely functioning daze.
It was nice.
Helen waved her final customer of the day out the door, her smile as fake as the dead squirrel masquerading as a toupee atop the man's head. Once he was out of sight she locked the door to the shop and turned away, determined to clean the place up before she headed for home.
Home. Where she was called either Helen or Dear or Mom. Never Helga. Anything but Helga.
That was the name her boss had insisted that she go by while at work. He'd said it would get her more business. He was probably right, but Helen wasn't sure that it was worth it. Not with the sort of clients it attracted.
Well, to be fair, the name change wasn't the only draw. The blonde wig brought in its fair share of creepy men. She pulled it off as she moved through the empty rooms, struggling with the urge to toss it in every trash can she passed by.
It had been a long day. No longer than usual, but plenty long enough. She needed to see her family. Receive their hugs and hug them in return. Eat with them. Talk with them. Normally.
Not, as she had since nine o'clock that morning, in that godforsaken Swedish accent.