I’ve been in need of a massage, something I believe to be as essential to the human existence as skin. Even animals stretch first thing after waking.
So, I finally convinced Tony to introduce me at a local “parlor.” And by parlor, I mean metal shack on the beach, a place I am loathe to go at any time, much less at midday with all the sun-soaking tourists. But I would go to the moon if I had to for a good massage.
During my standard siesta time between the hours of 1pm and 4pm, when I am usually holed up in my tiny room under the fan, I had a massage with Supa (pronounced ‘Shuba’). I addressed her with my usual speech to therapists about their liberty to press, pull, squeeze, or otherwise massage Finneas. I refrained from referring to Finneas by name, as the language gulf between us was already muddy. I’m foreign; no need to let her know I’m also crazy. I was already speaking without articles or adjectives.
She tested Finneas with a gentle pull. Then she asked me to perform some small exercises [stop laughing] of pulling and pushing her finger. Then, if my interpretation was correct, she asked me to swing Finneas vigorously, slapping her index finger. Ok. I whipped him with dexterity and hit my mark. She smiled, pleased.