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‘We do many type massage,’ he said, as he handed me a leather bound menu, ‘Thai, Swedish, oil, three hundred baht thirty minute, five hundred for ‘our.’ ‘An hour please.’ Lush as! ‘Sit here please,’ he said, pointing towards a leather arm chair. With the tinkle of a bell a woman who seemed not much older than me came down the staircase off to my right. First she removed my shoes and put my feet in an empty brass dish. She disappeared for a second and came back with a copper kettle then poured the warm soapy water, first on her hand to check the temperature and then down into the bowl. With a sponge she gently rubbed my feet, and between my toes. After the chaos of the last week in Laos and the shit splashed on those feet in Vietnam, and the adventure that was Cambodia, I could feel every tension and knot ease. The water was perfumed and smelt like bubble gum, the forgiving softness of the lounge chair I was in, meant I could breathe freely without that soreness from the diamond stuck. But that wasn’t how he played it, at least around me. I was a mean little snarl of a black-bobbed Bitchie McBitch, or so I comforted myself, and I wanted Matthew to diversify my portfolio. I let him coax me into wearing vinyl leggings, take me clubbing. He really taught me how to dance, be social. He lightened my wardrobe, steered me towards neon-hued Chuck Taylors, fitted out my iPod with Eurodance songs. Around him I could be cheery, experimental. By the end of freshman year I was more sociable than I had dreamed of. I actually may have become something of a fun person, without losing my core edge of moroseness. Make that fake-moroseness. Well, I’ve gotta keep my edge, haven’t I? “Girl,” I said to Matt over coffee and buttered rolls, “I am wilting away like some virginal Wharton heroine.” “Sheila dear, why is it with the ‘girl’ this, ‘girl’ that to me but I can never call you ‘girl’?” “Because you need to be told you’re a girl and I don’t. What I need affirmation on is being a slut.
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