Note: This is my first posting; it's high time I gave 
something back.  If someone else has used the pseudonym 
"Blue" and I missed it, kindly inform me by posting to 
the group.  Enjoy.


Good Morning
by Blue

"Ugh," he said, leaning back in his chair.  He clenched 
his eyes and tried to reach the middle of his 
shoulderblade.

"What is it?" she said, gliding into the room and 
putting her hands on his shoulders.

"Picture if you will," he said, "a piece of magma 20 
miles underground, so hot it's molten but under so much 
pressure it's solid as a diamond.  Now picture the 
muscles in one's back after six hundred days in a 
non-ergonomic desk chair.  Which feels worse?"

"Don't tell me," she said, rolling a knuckle across his 
knotted deltoids.  "I know this one... it's... it's... 
the rock?"

He laughed abortively.  "A few more minutes of your 
nimble fingers, and you'll be right."  He lifted his 
head and grinned at her.  "You always are."

She exhaled and stopped.  "Yeah, maybe, but my shoulders 
hurt too.  You've gotta at least be lying down.  I can't 
work like this.

"In fact," she said, straightening, "you--" she pointed 
an accusing finger-- "need professional help."

"It's been rumoured," he said dryly, leaning back in the 
chair and reaching his hand to her.  "And here, here's a 
quarter for a pretty good straight line."

"No thanks," she said.  "I bit the last one and had a 
toothache for a week."  He laughed, and while he was 
off-balance she wrenched him out of the chair onto the 
floor and straddled him.

"Oooohhhhgh," he said.  He looked up at her and added, 
"Owwa."

She regarded him for a moment, looking at those flat 
brown eyebrows and hazel eyes like chipped marbles.  He 
was in pain.  "We'd better not wait."

She hopped up with a move that is physically possible 
only for martial artists and young women in love.  
Skipping over to the phone, she dialed a number from 
memory and made an appointment with someone named 
"Marilee".

"That's it?" he asked, lifting himself off the floor 
with a grimace.  "You break my back, make a quick phone 
call, and set me up?  How much will this set me back, 
anyway?"

"It'll set your back straight," she said.  "Now stand up 
like a man and fix me some dinner!"

"Right, right," he said.  "You want anchovies?"

She slapped his shoulder.  "Mean old crumb.  Useless 
male.  I want scampi."

* * *

As soon as he stepped in the door, the smell of perfume 
turned his liver inside out.  It wasn't cheap or 
offensive, really, but Lord! he wasn't used to it.

"What is this place?" he said in an aside.

"My manicurist," she answered absently.  In response to 
his look, she shrugged.  "She was the first masseuse who 
came to mind.  Also has a beauty parlor."

"Okay, whatever," he said, sounding not quite at ease.

"You must be my 2:00," said a lady he assumed was 
Marilee.

"I must be," he said hesitantly.

"Okay, go in the second door on your left.  Take off 
your clothes and lie face up on the bed, under the sheet."

'Take off my clothes?' he thought.

"It's okay," she said.  "Trust me." 

He did as he was bid.  New Age music was playing in the 
background.  The lighting was dim, and there were scents 
of flowers in the air.  Either the perfume was weaker in 
here or he was getting used to it.

Marilee knocked before entering.  She oiled her hands 
and began by working on his arms, then uncovered one leg 
at a time, replaced the sheet, and lifted his neck with 
a piece of cloth.  She talked quietly as she worked.

"Mhm," Marilee said.  "Your cuticles are in sad shape.  
You need a manicure."

"And what would I do with one of those?" he mumbled.

"Do?  You don't *do* anything with a manicure.  You 
*have* one.  It's not a tool or a toy, it's an 
experience."

"Uh huh."

"Your nose stands out a bit, too.  I could help you with 
that."

"There's nothing wrong with my nose," he said calmly, 
not at all concerned.  "And what, do you do plastic 
surgery too?"

"No, silly, makeup."

"Uh huh.  But that's temporary, right?"

"There aren't any permanent makeups that would be 
useful, no.  Roll over."

The headrest was a loop of padded metal, so he lay with 
his face resting on it, staring at the floor.  "Eeeyah," 
he said as Marilee started to work on his shoulders.

"That's pretty tight," Marilee said after re-oiling her 
hands.  "Must be sore."

"You... could say that," he gasped.

"I'm going to put some lotion on that area and work it 
in."

"What kind of lotion?" he asked, apprehensive, imagining 
his new life as a walking perfumery.

"Meat tenderizer," she said.  "Just kidding!  Relax.  
Work with me, here."

"Phew," he said.  "Strong stuff."  If it were perfume, 
it would be for the lady who didn't want to dance that 
night.  In fact, she probably wouldn't need mace, and 
pepper spray would be redundant.  "What's in it?"

"Eye of newt, lizard tongue, that sort of thing."

"Uh huh."  He blinked, his eye stinging just a tad.  The 
headrest was making an indentation, and he shifted 
position slightly.  He was getting lightheaded.

* * *

He awoke feeling as loose and relaxed as ever in his 
life, maybe more.  He was lying face up on the massage 
bed.  Marilee was absent.  On the chair and coatrack, 
his clothes were gone, replaced by a dress and shoes and 
a few articles he barely recognized.  He sat up and 
looked at the wall mirror as the sheet fell away.

"Holy mother McCree!" he screamed.

There was a knock on the door.  Marilee's voice said, 
"Ah, you're awake.  Put your clothes on and come on out 
here.  I have to get the room ready for my next 
appointment."

"Ha!" he panted.  "Ahh ha, ahaha, ahee hee..."

Now the other voice came through the door.  "C'mon, 
honey," she said.  "We've got dinner plans.  Shake a 
leg."

"Shake a leg.  Right."

He started to shiver as he got up.  He didn't want 
dinner just then.  He wanted to talk to her and Marilee 
and find out what was going on.  And straighten it out; 
this was *not* the way life was supposed to be.  But he 
wasn't going to meet them naked, and the bedsheet was a 
logistical nightmare.

So, as it turned out, were the clothes left for him.  
After an unbelievably time-consuming adventure with 
straps, buckles, and more layers than he could have 
shaken a stick at, he had everything in place and looked 
like... "Hell," he said, staring at the bag lady in the 
mirror.  His dumbfounded gaze was interrupted by her 
voice from the hall.

"Everything okay in there?"

"Oh, lovely," he replied.  Taking a few steps toward the 
door, he added, "And where'd you get these shoes, the 
Spanish Inquisition Flea Market?"

"Actually, they're a relatively comfortable--Good lord!"  
Her face as she opened the door showed a mix of 
disillusionment and good-natured horror.  "Did you 
*ever* do any personal grooming in your life to this 
point, or were you just cast from some kind of mould 
every morning?"

"From a mould," he said thickly, "and I'd like to go 
crawl back into it.  Now."

"Well, how would I know how to find it?   Guess you're 
stuck like that.  Now work with me here."  She dragged 
him into the Ladies'.

"Are YOU crazy?" he said, surely louder than she wanted.

"Neither of us should be seen going into the other one," 
she said, and as the door closed she added, "and I sure 
as hell have no desire to see the inside."

"Whoa.  Stop the world.  What's going on?  Who said I 
wanted to see this place?  Who said I wanted to see 
*that*?"  He gestured at the mirror; his hand fell limp 
as he just shook his head, wide-eyed.

Before she said anything, he picked back up.  "Did I 
just go through a time warp or something?  Is it still 
today, or is it tomorrow now?  Or maybe next year?" he 
said as he turned sideways and inspected himself.  
"Damn twice," he murmured.

She said, "It's today, of course.  Five o'clock, as a 
matter of fact.  That's you," she gestured to the 
mirror, "and that you needs to get ready for dinner 
pronto."

"Right," he said.  "Formal attire, or just any old sack?"

"That will do," she said curtly, "and your nose looks 
great, but your hair needs serious work."

"Ah, yes.  My hair."  He dragged his hand through the 
strands.  "This is mine, isn't it?  I mean, I feel so 
silly for saying this, but I hardly remember growing it 
this way, much less getting it permed."

"That isn't permed, just curled," she said.

"Ah.  Of course.  A perm doesn't need combing."

She laughed sharply.  "You should get over any such 
simplistic views you have of boudoir techniques."  She 
began helping him straighten the Gordian tangles, 
eventually slapping his hands away to do it herself.  
He, meanwhile, stared at the manicured fingers and said 
"Ouch" repeatedly.

"Okay," she said after inspecting his face and smoothing 
a few wrinkles in the dress, "you're ready."  She led 
him back into the hall; he was only too relieved to quit 
the restroom.

She turned to him after five clacking steps and said, 
"Stop right there.  You walk like Frankenstein."

"I feel more like Andy Warhol."

"I doubt it," she replied.  "Your complexion's too rich.  
Take smaller steps, and for Pete's sake try not to 
stomp."

She caught him as he tripped.  He looked up at her from 
her arms and said, "I can't begin to tell you how weird 
this feels."

"I hope you won't try," she said, helping him right 
himself.

She led him out to the car--"It's taken care of," she 
said as they passed the front desk--and he made it over 
the threshold and sidewalk and curb.  She unlocked the 
passenger door and held it open for him.  "Um... 
thanks," he said, nonplused.

* * *

Well, it was a nice meal; he always liked Ruby Tuesday's.  
His head was still spinning, and when he ordered his 
usual Margarita, she just said, "You'll regret it."

So shell-shocked was he that not only did he fail to 
remember the taste of his meal, he couldn't recall 
whether their waitress was pretty.  He'd just been 
staring wide-eyed at the moiré tablecloth and counting 
little pink lambs with hairbows, trying to fall asleep 
so he could wake up.

By the time they got back to her place, a little guy on 
his shoulder with a rock hammer was playing John Henry 
with his head.  She led him to the bed, said "I told you 
so," and let him collapse more or less aligned to the 
pillows.  She walked back to the other room and made a 
call to Marilee.

* * *

He awoke with his arm around her.  She stirred, looked 
at him, smiled sleepily and kissed him.  He looked at 
her, remembered, put his hand to his face, leapt out of 
bed, and looked in the mirror.  He was the old himself 
again, looking normal as a sleeping cat or barking dog.

"That," he said as he walked back and slithered under 
the covers, "was the most bizarre experience of my life."

"Uh huh," she said.  She hummed a tune lightly: "You 
ain't seen nothin' yet..."

(end)

(c) Copyright by Blue 1996