Masseuse
Two p.m It has been thirty minutes sinc I woke up. The morning light filters softly through the frosted glass of my bathroom window, cutting through the lingering dampness of the room. I spend a long time unpacking the bags that bred my punishment. I place each item down with an intentional, almost ritualistic precision. I lay everything out on my marble bathroom counter—the amber bottle of the prescription, the sleek glass vial of the serum, the foaming cleanser, the SPF that Dr. Reeves had called non-negotiable, the targeted spot treatment, and the cool, alcohol-free toner. I step back, leaning against the doorframe, and look at it all arranged on my counter in a neat, perfect row. The lining of the bottles on the table strikes something deep inside me that's unfamiliar but I reco
- Writer
