When at last she’s administered the quick-drying serum from the eyedropper, she says, “Now just sit tight for a bit while it dries.”
But I can’t bear to be at that table any longer. Once she’s moved her fleshy knees and taken the bowl away in which I soaked my hands, it’s as if I’m at a wake. As she dumps the salty water into the sink, she asks me, as always, if I’d like to keep the emery board. At first I thought this was a tender gesture, a thing between Cassie and me. I found out later that they all ask this question. Still, I always keep the emery board. In my bathroom, there’s a whole drawer full of these emery boards beneath the sink.
Not too long ago, my husband opened the drawer and said, What the hell is this? And I said, Emery boards. Emery boards, huh, he said. Whatever. And he shut the drawer with a shrug.
When at last we’re finished, Cassie slides my ring back on, carries my purse up to the register so as not to compromise my Amuse Bouched nails. She fishes for my wallet. Roots around through my endless packets of Have Your Dessert and Chew It Too! gum for my car keys. I’ve got every flavor in there from Apple Pie to Sweet Tropical.
I say sorry it’s such a swamp in there. And she says don’t apologize, I should see her purse. She reminds me my nails are still quite tacky, so be careful. This is a slow-drying, formaldehyde-free topcoat. Sure, that top layer will feel dry-ish in about fifteen minutes, but those layers underneath will take a while. So don’t go banging them up against a wall or anything, hahaha.
Hahaha, I agree. And I promise Cassie I’ll be careful, knowing already I won’t be.
? ? ?
After I leave Aria, I do try to drive carefully, only lightly gripping the steering wheel. Every time there’s a red light, I look down at my nails, the color of Barbie innards, winking in the light. Already there’s a slight dent on one nail, a slight wrinkling of the topcoat on a couple of others.
By the time I get back to the shop, I’ll have more or less massacred them.
? ? ?
When I walk through the shop doors, I see Eve there behind the cash desk, draped in her usual iridescent silks. Seeing me come in, she beams like she’s a drowning woman and I’m a buoy being tossed to her from a ship. My arrival means she can finally go out into the back alley and scarf her unripe peach, her tub of fat-free Greek yogurt sprinkled sparingly with some sort of seedling. If she’s really famished, she might peck at a handful of almonds, which she’ll count out first in her palm like pills. They come from a Costco container, onto which she has scrawled “Do Not Eat! Eve’s ” with a Sharpie. Unbeknownst to Eve, I steal from this container all the time.
I smile at her as I come in, but I pretend I don’t see her look of hungry desperation and go straight to the back room. There, I take my time reapplying my cupcake lip gloss in the cracked mirror, even though it really needs no reapplication. But after seeing Cassie, I like to briefly inspect my own facial hollows and angles. It’s a relief to see they’re all still there. That I didn’t get fat by proxy. There’s a bundt cake on the counter, obviously Eve’s handiwork. Banana with some sort of obscure berry in it—maybe lingon or goose. Already it’s been more or less eaten. I picture all my middling colleagues coming in one by one to cut themselves a slice with our dull communal knife. Patricia, who’s been on the seventeen-day diet for the past five years. Mary, Sarah, and Lynne, all of whom are on some sort of point system. Madeline, who is attempting common sense to no avail. When I open the collective mini-fridge, I find their containers of wilted Organic Girl, their expired fat-free vinaigrettes, and, of course, Eve’s stalwart tub, atop which sits her white-fleshed peach, like a crown you want to topple.
There’s some Soy Delicious! and a Fuji in there for me too, for later. For now, I grab a handful of Eve’s almonds. I chew them, my eyes on her half-eaten bundt. I can tell by the flourish of grooves on the cake’s surface that she used the tiered blossom mold today. She likes to use a fun mold. Funky, she’d say, though the word rings wrong in her mouth. I picture her in her prim kitchen, pulling it out of the oven with festive pot holders, gloating. The treadmill she walks on every day just down the dark hall. Also gloating. At first I try to be above it, but then I grab the blunt knife dripping in the sink.
? ? ?
I’ve just stuffed a thin slice in my mouth when the swinging doors creak open and there’s Eve. Still beaming, but her eyes say I’ve kept her waiting long enough. She’s taking matters into her own hands.
“Amber’s covering the desk for me,” she says. “I’m famished.”
I nod, trying not to show her that I’m chewing, but she’s seen, so I have to say, “Delicious.”
Eve opens her silvery eyes wide, feigning innocence.
“Your bundt.”
“Oh, good!”