Soapy Traffic Detour

Eric spent the week out on a back road, stuck on construction detail with his hands up, telling drivers when to stop and go. They couldn't give a fuck how many times he went home sore and pissed. Middle fingers flew out windows all week until he finally said enough. That Saturday he saw an ad for Soapy Massage and figured why the hell not. His back and his thighs ached like he'd been carrying the road on his shoulders. Something hot and wet might wipe that week off him, so he walked in, jeans still dusted with road dirt, ready to get covered.