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In the happy-endings business, it pays to put on a felicitous face. On a sunny declination morning, she took the train from her home on lengthy Island to a storefront in Chelsea, wherever the windows were taped terminated with yellowing paper. A maroon communication with light letters provided the but clue about what business was beingness conducted here: “Spa.” Inside, it was as dark as a motion picture theater, the essay and thick curtains blotting out any sunshine. Soon the geographical region would fill up with customers, so Claire changed into a strappy zebra-print dress and steeled herself with a grimace for the job of giving massages, and occasionally more, to a march of men, something she does for 80 hours a week. Her parlor does not advertise happy endings — that all-too-familiar expression — but many clients require them, she said.