Thai Massage

I can smell eucalyptus and menthol and the pungent saltiness of the
sea. Around me, Thai voices laugh, gossip and call out to people on the
beach. The masseur dusts off my feet with a towel, rubbing between my
toes, flicking sand from my soles and heels. His hands are strong, warm
and oily. My body sheds tension as he works.

Palm leaves rustle dryly overhead as a breeze passes, raising the hairs
on my arms and cooling the sweat on the back of my knees. It is midday
and baking hot. His touch lifts, and when I turn my head he's digging a
hole for a sunshade. Under the heat and the rhythmic pressure of his
hands, I drift in and out of sleep.
I dream I'm flying. The air feels muscular and warm. It flows over me,
ripples under my outstretched arms and streams out behind me. I feel
sucked through the sky. Far below a dog barks and children laugh. I
tilt and wheel in broad circles, catching and riding an upward thermal,
then swooping down over the palm trees. I skim the waves, which swoosh
up the shallow beach, fizzing and bubbling into the sand as they fall
back.

This is the sound I hear as I come back to earth, as he's bringing the
massage to a close. My body feels boneless, a rag doll shaken by an
unruly child.
We smile and exchange bows, palms pressed together, muttering our
thanks to each other: khap khun kha - khap khun krup.

I've no idea how much time has passed.