Peter Pedi

I was taken back for my turn at the nail salon by a taciturn man named Peter, the only man in a shop full of women. I do not know if he was silent because of his misfortune to make his living massaging the calves of ageing matrons and giddy teenagers, or because he is naturally a quiet man, but we shared a bond, Peter and I.

He said "Good morning," and I said, "Good morning" and that was that; the sum and total of our conversation. Perhaps he knew that I am not one for endless chatter, answering questions about my life, opening myself up like a book to a stranger. Perhaps he knew that it was my day off, and he chose to let me enjoy it.

He directed my feet in and out of the water with gentle taps to my ankles and the process was smooth, ritualistic, like a dance step already memorized. I sat staring out the window at the cars passing by, drinking my skim latte; enjoying the opportunity to disconnect.

The shop only contained a few customers other than myself and Peter treated me to a longer than normal leg massage, never once making eye contact, never once acknowledging that I was there or that he was present either. I wondered if he liked legs, if he enjoyed seeing them, if it was a job perk.

When he was done, he passed me on to the nail tech, his face blank as I said thank you, his expression never altering. I was amazed at his ability to so thoroughly shut me out while performing so intimate a task and I cannot explain why this particular act impressed me. Perhaps I did not expect the disconnect to be so finite, maybe I like the chitchat, but don't want to admit it, maybe knowing that my presence meant nothing more to him than a check at the end of the day unnerved my endless supply of self importance.

I walked away knowing that there was a life lesson to experience, though I am still thoughtful about what it might be. Laters.