Thai Massage

I can smell eucalyptus, almond and tea tree oil; the pungent saltiness of the sea and, underneath that, a hint of nose-tickling washing powder from the cotton sheet I'm lying on.

The cotton sheet is bobbly and rough against my skin; beneath my right cheek its faded yellow and blue teddy bears drift in and out of focus. My ponytail feels clammy and cool where it rests against my neck.

The masseur dusts off my feet with a towel, rubbing between my toes and flicking sand from my soles and heels. He kneels between my legs and starts a cat-like padding with his palms, working his way up my calves, thighs, buttocks, back and shoulders, then slowly back down again, his weight shifting rhythmically, left to right, left to right. His hands are muscular and warm: when he uses a long pushing stroke their slight calluses catch on my skin. As he kneads my calves, ankles and feet, the oil becomes gritty with sand.

Around me Thai voices laugh, gossip and call out to people on the beach.

My body is starting to shed tension, the skin loosening away from the frame. There’s a prickling sensation on my right leg from where a cloud of tiny jellyfish drifted into me this morning. When I close my eyes, rainbow-coloured halos and black straggles drift restlessly in a burnt-orange sea.

Waves swoosh up the shallow beach then fizz and bubble into the sand as they fall back. Palm leaves rustle dryly overhead as a breeze pricks my skin, raising golden hairs.

He pushes my left leg and buttock across and down, padding my right shoulder up and away in a diagonal stretch: I grunt as the air is expelled from my lungs. He mirrors each movement on the opposite side, then circles his finger in the air to show that I should turn over.

Lying on my back, the thin towel feels scratchy where it touches the bit at the top of my left leg: I must have missed a bit when applying the suntan lotion this morning.

It’s almost midday, and it’s getting hotter. Sweat licks the backs of my knees. The masseur’s firm touch stops for a few moments and I hear whoomph and cleuch sounds. I can’t decipher them, so lift my head: he’s digging a hole for a sunshade, shovelling sand and grit.

He starts working on my legs, stomach, arms and shoulders, and I drift in and out of sleep. I only come out of it as he reaches my head and his powerful fingers stroke my forehead, circling my cheeks, upper lip, chin and jaw, and pushing the scalp away from my skull.

He sits me up and kneels behind me, then loosely cups his hands and with a bouncing, chopping action works his way across my upper back, shoulders and head with a thwock, thwock, thwock, thwock, thwock.

Finally, he braces my legs against his thighs, grabs my hands and vigorously pulls, shakes, twists and turns me. It’s like I have no bones. My head and torso flop about – a rag doll shaken by an unruly child. He grins then turns away so I can readjust my bikini.

At the end we smile and exchange bows, palms pressed together, muttering thanks to each other: Kop kung ka – Kop kung kap.

I have no idea how much time has passed...

(www.lookingglasslanguage.wordpress.com)