I studied the rest of the room. Everyone grouped together, according to their jobs. The servers who worked at the steak house. The craps dealers, the blackjack dealers, the poker dealers. The cocktail waitresses, the front desk associates. The pit bosses, the junket reps, the security guys, the fussy cluster of secretaries who brought their own silverware from home. The only other person I saw from the spa was Luis, who brought his tray outside and scattered bits of bread for the birds. He must have clacked the tray down on the table loudly, because the three women smoking under the nearby awning started and gave him the eye, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did it on purpose. Maybe he liked the vibration of the impact in his fingers. Maybe it made him feel heard.

I felt a pang as I watched him, a reflexive desire to store away stories and facts to tell Matthew, to pocket and package everything I saw and present it to him later. I wanted to tell him about Luis, to talk about what it would be like to navigate the world in so much silence. Matthew loved stuff like that: stories of extremes. I wondered what it felt like with no noise to crowd his thoughts.

When I came back from lunch, I worked on memorizing the spa menu and its descriptions of services. We were trained to upsell whenever possible, but of course the company never called it that. Enhancing relaxation meant add-ons to services: an extra exfoliant, a foot scrub. Pampering yourself at home meant buying products. I had to hand it to the copywriters. They made everything sound like a gift, even when the guest was the one footing the bill.

“What’s the difference between the Swedish Massage and the Premium Massage?” I asked Emily.

“Nothing but the price, I’m afraid.”

“Well, then what do you say when people ask you?”

“I tell them that the Premium includes acupressure and reflexology.”

“What are those?”

“Hell if I know. Most people will want to look like they know what you’re talking about, like they do this all the time, so hardly anyone ever asks. People are always afraid of looking stupid. I suggest using that to your advantage as much as possible. Shame motivates almost every interaction.”

“Okay, Freud,” I teased, but I already felt like she might be right.

“Think about it. How many times do you do something, or don’t do something, because you’re afraid you’re going to be embarrassed?”

“All the time.”

“You and everyone else. If we’re not being fat-shamed, slut-shamed, mommy-shamed, we’re worried about being seen as deficient for not knowing a random term for a scalp massage or a foot rub. It’s bullshit, but it’s true.”