The Perfect Wife

The retreat smelled like incense and bullshit, sweet smoke thick enough to choke me.

After twenty-four hours of pretending to meditate, I was already climbing the walls. All these pale women in linen talking about "releasing trauma." Sipping kombucha.

I booked the massage to keep up appearances. Marco would expect receipts. The woman on the phone had a professional tone, no-nonsense. "Ploy has an opening at four. She's very skilled."

Cristo, I hoped so.

The massage room was tucked away behind the main buildings. Privacy for the "healing process," they called it. I stripped to my knickers and climbed onto the table, face down in the little donut pillow thing.

When she knocked, I mumbled "ready" into the towel.

The door opened. Bare feet on wooden floors. She moved quietly, but I could feel her presence filling the space. Different from the others...no fake serenity in her movements.

"You are very tense," she said. Her English was precise, educated. "Your shoulders especially. You carry stress here." She pressed a point that made me wince.

If only you knew.

Her hands were warm on my back. Strong fingers that hunted knots with precision. I'd expected some gentle tourist massage, but this woman understood muscles.

"I studied in London," she said, working deeper into the knot. "Physiotherapy. But I came back. This place, my family's land. We built the retreat together."

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"Milano," I said.

"I know it, beautiful city. Visited once with friends, we stayed just outside in Brescia." She paused, pressing harder into my shoulder blade.

"Madonna, that hurt." Very suffocating, I wanted to say. Instead I just made a noise of agreement.

Her hands worked lower, into the knotted spots around my hips. Professional. Almost. But when her thumb traced along the band of my knickers, something shifted. The touch lingered a second too long.

I held my breath.

"Is okay?" she asked quietly.

Was it? I thought of twenty years of going through motions. Of hands that touched without seeing.

But this felt different. Like she was asking permission for something I'd never even known I wanted.

"Sì."

Her hands stilled. Then she continued, but the pretence was gone. Each touch deliberate, questioning. When she asked me to turn over, her eyes met mine.

She was beautiful. Dark eyes that didn't look away. Eyes yes that seemed to recognise something in me I'd forgotten was there. Her hands moved to my shoulders, circling oil into my skin.

"You have been to Thailand before?"

"First time."

Her thumb pressed a knot near my collarbone. Pain flared, heat shooting down my arm.

"Sorry. Very tense here." But she didn't ease up. She worked deeper until something gave way.

"Better?"

"Sì."

She shifted to the other shoulder. When she reached across me, I felt her against my arm. She didn't pull away. Neither did I.

My wedding ring caught her skin. White gold. Three carats.

"Beautiful ring," she said, tracing my palm with one finger. "But your hands... they are not happy hands."

She was right. Twenty years of polishing surfaces no one ever looked beneath.

"Long marriage?"

"Twenty years."

"Ah." She set my hand down gently. "Long time to sleep."

Cristo. Was I that obvious?

Her hands slid down my arms, then back to my shoulders. The oil warming between us. When she told me to turn over, I hesitated. Face to face would mean acknowledging what was happening.

But I turned.

She pulled the sheet around my hips, then started working on my legs from the calves up. When she reached my thighs, I stopped breathing.

"Relax."

But how could I? Her hands were patient, searching, like she was reading a language I'd never learned to speak.

"You think too much," she said, watching my face. "Here." Two fingers pressed to my temple. "Always thinking. But the body knows better."

Her hands moved higher. Inner thigh now. The sheet slid up.

I should have said no. Instead, I opened for her...not out of weakness, but because something in her touch felt like recognition.

My legs parted.

What came next wasn't hurried. She knew what she was doing. I was already wet from her hands on my thighs.

"Fuck," I whispered when she slipped inside me. She smiled.

"So wet already."

She untied her white tunic. Loose cotton pants underneath. No knickers. A gold chain at her waist.

Her mouth found my neck, teeth grazing skin as I grabbed her hair and pulled her closer.

I wanted her above me, wanted to taste her.

She smiled, shook her head. "Mm. Maybe later. Just lie back."

Two fingers now, curling deeper, finding the rhythm that made my whole body respond while she watched my face with complete focus.

Twenty years of being touched without being seen. But she watched everything. Every gasp, every twitch. Like she'd been waiting for me to arrive on her table.

She kissed me. Her tongue slow, her hand steady. Like she had all the time in the world to learn how I came apart.

Not like Bologna. Drunk on cheap wine, fumbling with Francesca after some protest march. Quick, clumsy, erased by morning.

This was different. Ploy's eyes never left mine. Like she wanted to memorise every moment I remembered what my body was for.

Afterward, she covered me with the sheet. Cleaned her hands with a warm towel while I tried to remember how to breathe.

"Tomorrow, same time?"

I couldn't speak. Just nodded.

She smiled. "Good. Tomorrow, we work on your hips. Still some knots there, I think."

Walking back through the bamboo, my legs shook. I passed two women in white yoga pants debating juice cleanses and wanted to laugh. Or scream.

I had to shower before dinner. Wash the oil off, though part of me wanted to keep the smell of her fingers on my skin. In the tiny bathroom mirror, I looked like someone I might finally want to know. Hair stuck to my forehead, lips swollen.

That evening, Marco's face filled my phone screen. Pixelated. Tired.

"How was your day, cara? Feeling centered?"

I was sitting on the narrow bed, legs still unsteady.

"Very therapeutic."

"Good. I need you sharp when you're back. The Milan contract is heating up."

Always the contracts. When had we stopped talking about anything else?

"Of course."

"I should go. Early meeting. Love you."

"Ti amo anch'io."

The screen went black. Night sounds through the open window. Cicadas.

My body still hummed from Ploy's hands. Tonight, I hadn't just been touched. I'd been seen.

And for the first time in twenty years, I believed I still had a body worth knowing.

Marco thought I was finding my inner peace.

Maybe I was...just not the kind he paid for.