Physical Therapy by Aysel Quinn

 
    Searing pain crawled through my entire body as I crumpled to the ground, unmindful of the sweat-damp mat crushing into my flesh as I writhed. I was only vaguely aware of the random people hovering over me until one of them, in a staff uniform, pushed down on my shoulder. I thought it was a gentle poke, but I screamed to high heaven as if my arm had been torn out of its socket.
    Dizzy and nauseous, I was helped to my feet and led out of the gym to my waiting car, my roommate, Nell, behind the wheel. I hadn’t seen her leave, but I hadn’t seen much at all after the accident. I would never listen to Nell about anything, ever again. Just because she thought it would “bring that Tasha pep back” didn’t give her license to drag me to a gym where she had to know I’d somehow injure myself. So maybe I was a little weak in the muscle area, and maybe I was about as flexible as a flagpole, but what of it?
    I was happy being tone-less. Mostly. Thank you, stupid Sean and your stupid new model girlfriend for that mostly . Jackass.
    It took Nell three months after Sean dumped me for that conniving Brazilian bimbo to convince me to use her gym guest pass, and one hour for me to dislocate my shoulder and tear two tendons. In yoga class. At least it was that fast-paced yoga with a long name, like Hurtsalotavada, but still. I knew a terrible idea when I heard one, and I should have listened to my gut.
    Nell seemed properly remorseful as she drove me to the hospital and stayed with me through the rounds of x-rays and waiting and doctors and waiting and sling-fitting and paying. That one hour of yoga cost me two thousand dollars, two weeks off work due to painkillers, and the promise of more wretched pain in physical therapy. At least I didn’t have to have surgery, but I still wanted to bill Sean.
    ****
    I dreaded going into the bleak-looking medical building and shuffled my feet as I approached the door to the physical therapy suite. As I expected, the waiting area was full of teenage boys and elderlies. Great. The atmosphere of the room was as hostile as I felt inside, no one looking forward to being poked, prodded, and generally made miserable. I filled out the necessary forms, and realized as I reviewed my therapy prescription that recovery demanded my presence here twice a week for two dismal months. I sighed and took a seat to await my doom.
    Only a few minutes had passed when a scrubs-clad woman with violent red hair beckoned and practically shoved me into a tiny room, almost empty except for an odd massage table/hospital bed combo, and a giant open cabinet full of labeled drawers.
    “Please remove your clothing from the waist up and wear the gown, ties in back.” The woman didn’t even look up from my chart. Rude witch.
    She turned to leave and spoke over her shoulder. “Your therapist will knock in five minutes. Please be ready.”
    This was going to be as hellish as I had expected. I had learned how to manage my clothes one-handed, but getting my shirt over my bad shoulder was still a challenge. I’d barely thrown on the worn, candy-printed gown before the ominous knock occurred.
    “Come in.” I was muttering again, my nerves getting the better of me. I didn’t like pain.
    The door creaked open with cringing slowness, and my chart appeared again, this time held in front of the face of a man. A youngish man with a mop of unkempt, brown hair and the body of Adonis. If Adonis shopped at the Gap. I still couldn’t see his face, but his defined muscles were displayed perfectly by simple khakis and a white polo with the clinic logo on it.
    I was still staring at his chest when he spoke. I barely heard what he said because the cadence of his voice made me feel like a cake peering upward in rapture as it awaited a blissful stream of molten ganache to cover it.
    “Tasha DuPont?” The voice spoke again, and I felt myself sway slightly like a drunkard.
    I tried to recover what dignity I had left. “Um, yeah, DuPont, like