Last Friday

I went to get a massage from a woman I used to know. I felt a little proud to see her set up with her own massage room in a salon, all amber and ethnically confused. The last time I had seen her she had just finished massage school and it was all up in the air whether or not she could establish her own practice. I remember then listening to her spark up as she talked about the moment before she touched a body, how she was learning to summon up love and caring in the breath before she laid her hands down. That neccesity of emotion for a profession struck me at the time, and stuck with me. As I laid on the table on Friday, hip aching and eyes blankly staring through a cushy round hole to the floor, I heard her suck up her breath. Something about the recognition of her intent in that moment was embarrassing and oddly touching. It felt strange to just lay there and take the care.