The Healer & The Healed

I was running down the street in Notting Hill, huffing, puffing, dragging too many bags, rushing towards the appointment with a healer I had booked at the last minute as a window had opened in both our schedules. 

”The synchronicity is potent,” I thought gravely, nodding to The Universe.

“You need this,” The Universe responded—or so I told myself. 

I was feeling achy, bloated, sweaty, stressed.

Worst of all, I was awfully dressed. What the hell was I wearing?

I rushed up the four floors and rang while I was pulling on my shirt and smoothing my hair, trying to regain my composure.

—

She opened the door to an apartment as airy as I was short of breath.

The windows were opened wide to the top of plane trees that were showing the first yellows and reds of Autumn. The reclaimed wood floor was begging for me to remove my shoes, exactly as you would expect in a space where the balance of the world—and, hopefully, of outfits—is about to be restored.

She was incredibly tall, thin and strong, her waist …