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Like the time we went for a massage at 8:00 p.m. Somewhere downtown Bangkok and the staff said "yes yes yes we can" and they russled up the therapists, number 25 was mine.
Number 25 wore yellow. Probably in her sixties and tiny enough to blow away, and yet she weilded a massage like Attilla the Hun conquering places in my back and shoulders that had been hopeless for years.
Number 25 was cheerful, precise, silly and delightful. She called her colleagues into the room to examine the tattoo on my butt between oo's aah's and high pitched fast paced language and laighter (I don't think it was ordinary Thai).
She also stayed in the room while I showered and changed. She was so present for her work that it was easy to like her.
She said at the end of two blissfully painful hours 'you new person now'.
Nameless number twenty five. I asked her how old she was - big toothy grin - "45, just like you!"
We laughed. We're both not 45 and haven't been for a while.
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