The girls don’t seem to take to the ideas that I recount so passionately. There are shuffles and whispers and the occasional giggle
Mrs. Brach is back. She’s probably my longest-standing client, and definitely holds the track record for the most varied — and original — issues that she claims need treatment. Every month is something else — jaw pain, trouble sleeping, stiff muscles. Every time she claims the treatments had “done her magic” and the problem has disappeared. And then the next one comes along.
She isn’t really here for any of those reasons. She’s here for the chance to relax, lie back, and close her eyes. And to talk. Before the treatment. After the treatment. Sometimes, during the treatment, too.
“You get a mazel tov, Mrs. Brach, isn’t that right? The bar mitzvah of your…” I want to say einekel, it feels like the right word, but I’m also unsure if it really is, and if Mrs. Brach is the type of person who would pronounce it ai like pain or ei like pie. “Grandson,” I finish lamely.
Mrs. Brach doesn’t notice my discomfiture. She settles on the massage table, lies back with a sigh. “Achhh, that’s better. Yes, yes, the bar mitzvah. It was wonderful, but all those hours in heels… I need you to do your magic again.”
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