The Giver

As we dance the other night, you feel nimble and well rested, and you smell like you are attracted to me, although I am not sure if that’s really me or someone else.  Your right shoulder cracks just a little bit. 

During the performance break I find a nice high perch to sit on, you stand nearby.  I motion you to come closer, closer.  You come up and lean against my thigh.  I put my hands on your shoulders and ask your permission.  You allow.

Your shoulders and upper back are complicated. The trapezius is tight from the neck across, and knotted between the spine and the scapula.  I wish I had the firm ground, not the perch to help me really dig in. I put one arm or the other across your collar bones for leverage.  I use the arm strength, eyes closed, breathing.  I switch between the fingers, thumbs, and the base of the hand.  When I lean in, I feel and smell your hair.  You move my arm crossing your chest a bit lower.  You tell me when I hit a painful knot, and I go easier there.  The second song is almost over, and I move the thumbs up your neck and to the base of your scull.  This gesture is smaller, but more intimate, a devious way to finish.  You rub your hands.

I let go, you help me off the perch and give me an expectant smile I can’t read.  You motion me to turn around, and you rub my shoulders for a bit.  I savor feeling diminutive under your hands, from the somatic memory of your larger frame under my smaller hands just seconds ago.  But I’m also bewildered, because I didn’t expect you to reciprocate: my shoulders have been behaving lately, and the floor reopened.  A “thank you” would have sufficed. 

Oh, I see.  Interesting.  You much rather give than receive, don’t you?

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