Her walk is like a whisper.
Her talk is like gently, fluttering butterfly wings.
Her fingers massage the stress away like a melody on a restless night.
She's been working hard for the last ten years to make people feel relaxed and rested.
She kneads away their stress and strain till her hands hurt.
She goes back to a silent and lonely home for her family lives in a far off place.
A place they can afford because she decided to rough it out in a new city.
She gives. But hardly receives.
She is a masseuse.
I ask her: In these ten years have you ever had a good massage yourself.
She replies: Never.
Seeing my eyebrows disappear into my hairline, she laughs like the tinkling bells.
I am yet to process this information.
But all I know for now is that her answer makes me sad.
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