He watched the master spread the oil over his other arm, imagining, without trying to, his own hand circling there instead. "Yes, sir," he said sir like a whip-snap, reminder. He pulled his gaze away, focusing instead on the elegant bottle of honey-colored oil. "Most often in the summer, when they can be done outside, or in the temple with its doors wide open."
He smiled softly, letting memory do its work. "There were bushes of it that grew wild in the field near my house, when I was young. On summer nights, the field, newly-mown, was perfect for dancing." His smile turned a little sad. "I don't think I've ever danced so much as when I was a child."