The Massage Room – Part 2: Thursdays

By the third Thursday, Hanna no longer booked room seven. She simply arrived at the desk at six, nodded to Eszter, and waited for Réka to come out and take her hand.

"You're not my therapist any more," said Eszter, pretending to be cross, as she handed over the key. "You two are a nuisance."

"We're not doing anything," said Réka.

"Of course not," said Eszter, and winked.

They didn't talk about it at first. They talked about everything else: the weather, the bread, the way the baths smelled like minerals and warm stone. Then, one evening in October, Hanna brought a small wrapped parcel to the massage room and set it on the table.

Inside was a watercolour of the Danube at dusk, the water a soft, bruised blue, the bridge lights blurred into gold.

"I painted it last night," Hanna said. "For you. It's not very good."

"It's beautiful," said Réka, and her voice cracked. "Hanna, it's really beautiful."

"I'm glad you think so."

Réka set the painting carefully against the wall, where the lamp could catch it. Then she turned and looked at Hanna, who was standing very still, hands tucked into her cardigan pockets.

"Can I take you for a walk?" Réka asked. "Along the river? The lights are good at this time."

"Yes," said Hanna. "I'd like that."

They walked slowly along the Danube, the air cool and smelling of wet leaves and river water. The bridges glowed above them. Trams hummed on the far bank. Hanna walked close, her shoulder touching Réka's every few steps, as if she couldn't quite decide whether she was allowed.

"Can I say something?" Hanna asked, when they stopped at a bench overlooking the water.

"Of course."

"I've been coming to the baths for three years," said Hanna. "Every Thursday. Not because I needed the massage, though I did. I came because you were the only person who ever asked me how I was and waited for the answer."

Réka's chest tightened. "Hanna."

"I'm not asking for anything," Hanna said quickly. "I just want you to know. Before we go any further."

"Then let me tell you something back," said Réka, and turned on the bench to face her. "I've been waiting for the room seven door to open every Thursday since I started. I didn't know why. I know now."

Hanna's eyes were wet, bright in the bridge light. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Réka. "And if you want to stop, I'll stop."

"I won't want to stop," said Hanna, and kissed her.

It was soft and unhurried, Hanna's hand coming up to rest against Réka's cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray tear that had escaped. The river murmured below them. Somewhere a boat horn sounded, long and low. Réka leaned into the kiss and felt, for once, entirely at home.

When they parted, Hanna was laughing softly, her forehead against Réka's.

"That," she said, "was a much better ending than I planned."

"Next Thursday?" Réka asked.

"Next Thursday," said Hanna. "And bring the painting. I want to hang it in my flat."