For Xu Zhiyi, Wednesday always began with an old injury. A car accident three years ago had left a lower-back injury; every Wednesday after work she saved the last slot for that quiet therapy room on the edge of the city. The therapist, Aze, was two years younger than her, but his hands were seasoned, the kind that truly understands a body.
"The back again today?" He set a pillow for her on the table. She said mm and lay down. He reached along both sides of her lumbar spine through the therapy gown, the pressure exact, and at one press her brow eased; three years, and only he could reach that point.
The sky darkened fast. The good thing about the last slot was that there was no one in the corridor, the whole floor down to only the two of them breathing, and the faint sound her skin made under his hands. "Where does the therapy go today?" she heard herself ask, the tone more suggestive than she had meant. His hand paused. Then behind her she heard a soft click, the door, locked from the inside.