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So, erotic-massage—overpriced back rubs with a fancy name. I mean, sure, it’s been around forever. Ancient Greeks did it, called it “anatripsis.” Slaves oiled up their masters, kneadin’ muscles like dough. Sounds like a waste of good olive oil to me. I’d rather grill a steak than let some stranger paw me for 50 bucks. “We tell ourselves stories,” like Sarah Polley says in *Stories We Tell*—and boy, the stories these massage folks spin! “Relaxation,” they say. Ha! More like awkward silence while some hippy hums and dims the lights.

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But then, outta nowhere, I bump into my old friend, Janelle. We used to run track together back in the day. She’s all smiles, and I’m like, “Girl, where you been?” Turns out she’s opening a new gym on Half-Way-Tree Rd. I’m so proud of her! We chat for a bit, and it’s like no time has passed.

UPDATE: Well-known businessman behind cop's killing at HWT station