Massage Noir

A second session, and the headaches are as obscure as ever
hovering in the midrange, come-and-go, not thunderclap,
not migraines, not disabling, reassuringly bilateral. They ought
to be muscular in origin; the ill-named “tension headaches.”
But all the usual suspects have alibis. The lower traps have
confessed their petty crimes: they're going straight.

One of the wickeder, more inward scalenes, maybe. A strand
of lev scap cunningly twisted, hard to pin. Maybe
one of those outlandish muscles that only five percent
of people have? My mind roams among the more
freakish possibilities. Calf muscles. Wrist extensors.

Well. Next time I'm going to put her on her side
and see if something opens up. Interrogate
the lev scaps one at a time, where they can't
hear each other's stories. Let the SCM imagine
it's free of suspicion. Back the subscap
up against the ribcage and rough it up a little.

Sooner or later, someone's going to talk:
and when he does, these headaches
are going out of business.