My masseuse is a French woman whose name, perhaps because at this point my brain has parked the car in neutral and walked away with the keys, I cannot recall. Throughout history, the greatest masters of medical rubbing were the blind, their sense of touch heightened by their lack of sight. My masseuse has good vision and even better aim. Every organ is implored to relax. Babies crave touch.
Adults crave massage.
I am almost unable to move. Two women come in, looking lost. They clutch their pareos and walk carefully across the wet tiles, self-conscious knots sitting lightly on their brows. They have no idea what's in store for them. I promise myself that I will come here more often, particularly when the morose continental winter bears down on us, turning us all a much lighter, sickly shade of pale.