“Nine-teen. Nine-teen.” One of the masseuses called out. The slick plastic table next to her was empty.

Ann drew herself out of the tub. The tile floor was slippery and she clutched onto her washcloths and envelope while holding her thin cotton robe and towel over her bare front. The massage table area smelled dank and slightly syrupy-not a fragrance that she had ever encountered before.

Number 19, her black hair frizzed from a bad perm and held back with bobby pins, must have been in her mid-forties at least. The skin around her jowls, below her armpits, and around her belly seemed soft and pudgy. Ann had seen that look before. It was comforting, reassuring. She could imagine melting in those fleshy arms so that her body would no longer be floating without an anchor.

Number 19 took Ann’s robe and towel and hung them on a hook beside a steaming barrel of water. The envelope went on a shelf. “Lie down.” She nudged Ann toward the slippery plastic table. Even that gentle touch made Ann flinch-when was the last time someone had touched her bare back? Ann did as she was told, turning her head toward the left. She could see that the waistband of Number 19’s black panties was torn. The masseuse took one of the pink washcloths and Ann heard her squirt liquid-the seaweed salt treatment, no doubt-onto the center of the mitt.

The slosh of water from the barrel came next. It was lukewarm, not hot like the jacuzzi’s water.

Then Number 19 began scrubbing her shoulders, her backside, her legs. Ann now understood what Marie was talking about. All the bad residue from work seemed to be stripping away from her body, breaking up, disintegrating with each scrub and rinse of water.

Number 19 then tapped Ann on the shoulder and gestured for her to turn over.

Ann didn’t have much breasts to speak of.