I kept a watchful eye to ensure that no other flesh made contact with the unknown detergent substances, for fear of inflaming my eczema.
I sat there for several minutes, feeling rather foolish, while she rummaged in a nearby drawer
and returned with a variety of stainless steel tools, carefully laid out on a tray.
Her catatonic companion had finally sprung to life and was chatting enthusiastically to a coworker at a different concession;
I couldn’t discern the topic, but it seemed to prompt some eye-rolling and shrugging.
Casey deemed the moment apposite to remove my hands from the water, and she then laid them on a folded flannel.
She carefully patted each fingertip dry. I wondered why she hadn’t simply asked me to remove my hands, using her voice,
and passed me the towel, so I could dry them using my hands,
since I was enjoying, at current point of reporting, full use and motor function in all limbs and extremities.
Perhaps that was what pampering meant, thoughliterally, not having to lift a finger.
Casey set to work with the tools, pushing back my cuticles and trimming them where required.
I essayed some chitchat, aware that this was the done thing in the circumstances.
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