Working Hands

Her hands were like a race car, at first a dragster on a straightaway up and down my leg, back and forth, a million miles per hour, creating a nice heat that burned softly, warming my core in the breezy tepid room, then an Indy car, bending through the s-curves, one after the other, each lap increasing in speed. Warm oil poured into the middle of my back acted like a reservoir for the rest of the body. Each rhythm of the hand, an additional dip to the well. Each beat, an additional muscle fiber released.

The fragrance was sweet and therapeutic; a soft subtle liniment softening every inch of my sun-dried body.

My masseuse was vibrant and wore a pink sari with a bright orange apron draped over it, her eyes telling a tale of a life full of hard work, and in this 45 minute massage (for 700 Rupees <15 bucks>), I wondered how many rupees would she see of those. She talked to me at the end of the massage and we traded niceties, her 55 years looking much younger as she told me that I should buy a sari and how splendid I would look in one. Who knows, maybe tomorrow, I will take her advice.

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