I've been making these private promises of affection to my body in the mirror, in my bed, in the car. Noting when I am bloated and remembering to drink water, but refraining from distorting my face at the sight of my belly. Planning pedicures guiltlessly. Smirking at the incredible thickness of thighs in gray leggings. Earlier, I let my limbs droop loosely into the palms of my masseuse’s hands. Her name was Nikki. She kneaded relief into the small spaces between my knuckles. Traced sunken rivers underfoot. I imagined polychromatic splashes flowering from each pressure point. Locating the nearest heated pool, I toss a bathing suit into my purse, just in case. Noted also the two-dollar theater where Maleficent is still playing, open only after 4:30. Could pay in quarters. Being top-heavy in public, smiling. Casually feeling on my own pussy in the middle of reading. Or sneaking in ass-grabs in front of the open fridge, while bringing grapes to my mouth. Savoring the juice. Little things that take me away from whoever-no-never-mind and return me back home.
