Yandi’s face looks like it’s been put through a photographic filter: smooth as a calf suede, hairless eyebrows like mirrored upside-down ticks, umber lips in a matte lipstick. The doek on her head is a tight, neat confection. Her name badge is on straight; her uniform fits like she was sewn into it; her nails are short (she wouldn’t be able to do what she did if they were long) but done.
She never strays from the script. Are you well? Here is your robe. Hang your clothes there. Lie here.
Naked.
![](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F22b50b7a-c175-4a3c-84ea-9026c19bea5e_1280x927.heic)
The walls are thin enough to not exist at all if it weren’t for the visual privacy they provided. People greet one another in the narrow passage outside the room with the jovial familiarity of those who don’t know one another beyond a single location and wouldn’t know what to say if they bumped into one another context.
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