The black cursive print on the white umbrella said Mama Zamira Massage and Spiritual Balance. The umbrella provided shade for a massage table and a smaller square table with painted figurines on it arranged around a woven grass mat. The massage table was mounted on wheels and hitched to a bicycle painted with stripes and blotches in every color imaginable.
A young woman, perhaps thirty, with skin the color of burnt umber and tar-black hair protruding from a white mesh skull cap stood behind the rig folding a large beach towel. A white robe covered her body but judging from the angle of her jaw she was trim and athletic. Kak tried to insert her into the game she often played in her head, encapsulating her in a paragraph as if introducing her in a story. This time nothing came.
A line of chalk dust encircled the entire operation. Just a thin line all the way around it. Sprinkled onto the pavement. A deliberate demarcation. Something told Kak not to cross it.
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