Felt bad on Monday so I went to a massage joint in Corona, Queens—Casa del Tacto. Immediately, fell in love with my masseuse. She was five-foot-four in wobbly stilettos, a row of moles across her face like a nail. For $45, she gave me the worst massage of my life. Spent a lot of time working at body parts that don't get sore—knees, ribs, toes. I tipped another $45 and asked when she got off work. She said we didn't have to wait. I said I preferred to.

Met her at an Indian place. Music blasting, a teenager DJing. All dubstep. From the drink menu posted on the street, I thought it was a bar. But it seemed more like a late-night Punjabi spot. Lots of old guys eating. Besides Skrillex Rushdie in the back, I was the only one with a drink.

Valentina didn't seem to mind. She even ordered food. They didn't give her a lunch break at Casa del Tacto. So, she ate and I drank and we got to talking. She'd been here six months. Working at the massage parlor. Giving every cent she made to some pimp. Anything she managed to steal going to her family. They slept on bunkbeds in a studio apartment. All six of them. She only saw them on her night off. Tonight. Which she was spending with me.

I paid and took her around the corner to an ATM. Gave her $200 in twenties. She reached for my pants. I pushed her hand away.

"Nada de sexo, por favor," I said.

"Qué?" she asked, tilting her head. Looking at me like I was insane. Like I was some wild kind of stupid.

I didn't answer. Just walked. Took the 7-train home. Felt worse.

.