“Of course,” I answered. “Why?”
She pointed. “Because you’re rubbing your leg.” Her expression held curiosity and concern.
I took a final draw on my cigar before extinguishing it, then beckoned her closer. “It throbs occasionally,” I admitted. “Especially when overworked.”
I expected her to take the adjacent chair, but instead, she kneeled at my feet.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Her hands found my leg, her touch gentle as she began working the tightened muscles. When she found her rhythm, I nearly groaned, sinking deeper into the chair and closing my eyes.
“Just relax, K. I got you,” she murmured.
“K?” I opened one eye.
“Konstantin is too damn long and nobody has time to say all that.”
A smile formed before I could suppress it. I surrendered to her ministrations, the tension in my body gradually releasing.
Then, something unexpected began to happen. Her touch became almost imperceptible, yet I felt warmth spreading through me, not just where her hands worked but throughout my entire body, as if I were an empty vessel being slowly filled.
“What exactly are you doing to me?”
She chuckled softly. “Reiki. I studied it when I lived in Japan.”
I regarded her with genuine interest. “You lived in Japan?”
“Mm-hmm. I was obsessed with the culture at one point and lived there for a year. Then I met Josh.”
The mention of her ex-husband required no elaboration.
“What drew you there?”
She smiled, her hands continuing their gentle work on my leg. “After dropping out of college, I was just... exploring. Everyone in my family has a prestigious degree. My mom nearly had a heart attack when I told her I wasn’t going back for my junior year.”
“Rebellious.”
“More like honest with myself,” she corrected. “I hated every minute of those lecture halls. My trust fund gave me the freedom to choose my own path, so I did. Japan had always fascinated me, so I just... went.”
“That sounds like quite a leap.”
“It was the first time I felt completely free,” she admitted. “I rented this apartment in Kyoto, learned to navigate using only Japanese signs, made friends despite the language barrier.” Her voice carried a hint of pride. “People underestimate how much you can communicate without perfect words when you’re really paying attention to them.”
“And then you met your ex-husband.”
“Josh was an English teacher at one of the international schools. He seemed so worldly and certain about everything.” Her voice carried a note of self-reproach. “He convinced me to return to New York where we could build a ‘real life’ together.”
“You were young,” I offered, watching her expression soften at my words.
“Not too young not to know better,” she said with a rueful smile. “But I learned what I needed from that mistake.” Shelooked up, meeting my gaze with unexpected intensity. “Honesty matters more than charm. Actions more than promises.”
Her hands continued their gentle work on my leg, her touch both soothing and distracting. After a moment of comfortable silence between us, she asked, “How does it feel to get shot?”
The question caught me by surprise. Most people avoided the topic entirely, treating it like forbidden territory.
“Initially, there’s no pain,” I said, my voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry beyond our shared space. “Just a strange pressure and heat. Your body doesn’t immediately recognize what’s happened.”
I shifted, watching her hands move. “Then comes the cold. It spreads from the wound outward. Time slows. You hear everything with unnatural clarity. The actual pain arrives later, after the shock fades.”
