Page 38 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Are you okay?” Wouter asks, mouth pulling into a frown. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Maybe just because of my line of work.”

“And it’s probably because of mine that my posture is a nightmare.” I extend my arms as far as they’ll go, to one side and then the other. “It wasn’t enough for me to be a hundred and fifty centimeters tall. I have to slouch, too.”

“You should see a doctor. A physiotherapist,” he says as his mouth kicks into a smile. “I could take a look if you want. Give you a bit of relief.”

“Oh, no—you couldn’t,” I say, althougha bit of reliefsounds like the loveliest thing I’ve heard all day. “I’d feel bad, not paying you.”

“I could charge you if that would make you feel better.” He pats the table. “It’s no trouble at all. Some of my friends have asked me to do the same, and I don’t mind it if you think it might help.”

I can’t deny that it would probably help a significant amount, so I tell him yes. He lays down a fresh towel while I hang up my scarf and jacket.

“How does this work?” I ask, leaning down to unzip my boots. “I’ve had a massage, but I’ve never been to a physio or a chiropractor or anything.”

“Well, you can keep most of your clothes on. That’s a major difference.”

“That’s a relief, because I’m not wearing underwear.”

The joke…does not hit the way I expect it to. Wouter immediately freezes as he’s adjusting the towel.

“Uh—sorry, that was a bad joke,” I say, fighting a full-body wince. “I’m wearing underwear. I promise. Not that it’s a big deal either way, I guess plenty of people like the freedom of it, but—I was just thinking about this morning when I walked in on you, and you weren’t wearing—you know what, now I’m making it worse. I’m just going to put my face in the face hole thing and we can forget I ever said anything!”

I climb on top and spread myself out. Wouter might beswallowing back a laugh, so at the very least, I’m glad my agony is entertaining.

With my head down, his voice sounds like it’s coming from farther away than right next to me. “I typically start by asking my patients where they’re experiencing pain and if they can describe what it feels like.”

“My ego,” I mutter.

“Sorry?”

“My lower back.” I consider the question for another moment. “And my neck, and maybe also my shoulders? I wouldn’t say it’s a sharp pain, more of a dull ache. I only notice it if I really stop to think about it, if that makes sense?”

“Yes, it does. That’s good to know.”

I hear the sound of running water, Wouter washing his hands at the small sink in the corner. Then he comes closer, soft footsteps until I can see his shoes on the floor below. Though his hands aren’t cold when he pats them along my back, I shiver at the lightest touch.

“How did you realize this was what you wanted to do?” I ask the floor.

“My dad had this excellent physio after his first stroke—that was what inspired me. He wound up mentoring me during my studies,” he says. “The connection between the mind and body fascinated me. I went to as many of my dad’s appointments as I could. I wanted to be able to help people in pain, to help them figure out how to be comfortable in their bodies, even when their bodies are working against them.”

“That’s really incredible,” I say, entirely genuine. “I’m so glad your dad had that.”

His hands travel up my spine, as though checking that each vertebra is where it’s supposed to be. “Wow.”

“What? Is my back totally fucked?”

“No, no,” he says. “It’s just—I’ve treated a lot of injuries, but I don’t think I’ve seen anyone this tense in a while.”

“It’s a gift.”

“You must carry a lot of tension here, in your shoulders.” His palms find my shoulder blades above my T-shirt, and I try my best to relax them. “If I gave you some stretches, would you practice them on your own?”

“Depends. Does our insurance cover this?”

And even though I can’t see him, I’m certain he’s rolling his eyes at me.

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