Sylvia dropped into the sagging couch and put her feet on the glass-top table. A stack of hair magazines slid to the floor while both women watched.
“What are you still doing here? You did the Perkins today?” Lana had started doing the hair for the old lady cousins a couple of years ago on her day off.
“I’m gonna quit seeing them,” Lana said.
“You’ve been saying that for years.”
“I probably have, but it doesn’t take an hour to do both of them they’ve got that much hair,” Lana snapped her fingers, “and what they’ve got is like cotton candy. That’s going to be us in a few years.”
“In a few years,” Sylvia smirked.
“Let me have my delusions,” Lana said. “What brings you out at nighttime? Witchcraft?”
“What kind of mind do you have?” Sylvia pursed her lips but she was amused. “I’m wasting time like usual.”
“Bobby Womack died. Did you know that?”
“That’s been awhile. I told you that when it happened. Where have you been?”
“You might have told somebody but it wasn’t me. He was seventy. About your age. Many, many years older than me.” Lana nudged Sylvia on her shin, hoped to get a reaction out of her with the old joke. “A lot of black people are dying young. Famous ones, I mean.” Lana started counting on her fingers. “Michael Jackson, Donna Summer, Bernie Mac, Greg Hines.”
“That hurt me. I loved Greg Hines,” Sylvia said.
“Who didn’t? Rick James, Lou Rawls, Whitney Houston and her daughter, I forget her name. What was the little boy’s name? What you talking about Willis?”
“I know who you mean.”
“I don’t think he was much over forty.”
“He was sick, Lana. He wasn’t supposed to live that long.”
“He’s still dead ain’t he?”
Sylvia sighed and rolled her eyes. She was glad she stopped to see Lana. She’d driven to Hickory to shop, not shop really just to look at a bunch of merchandise useless to her but calming for its order and sameness. Once she got to the mall, parked in a faraway place, watched a few people trek inside like into an ant colony, she’d lost the heart to go in herself. What the hell for?
“You remember that boy the kids said died from break dancing?”
Sylvia nodded. “I saw him on a show. Dancing with the Stars maybe. I guess he’s not dead.”
“Not entirely,” Lana said. “Is Danny Glover dead?”
“Why are you talking about this?”
“I’m feeling cheerful today.” Lana picked up a bunch of dirty towels and tossed the heap into a hamper near the bathroom door. “I was really trying to find myself a pet on the Internet and saw one of BB King’s kids.”
“Stay off the Internet, Lana. There’s nothing for us on it.”
“Maybe not for you, but I’m living in the twenty-first century.”
“I better not hear about you using that Twitter,” Sylvia said.
“Look here.” Lana fumbled in her purse and held her phone out for Sylvia to see. “Puppies for You. So many cute ones.”
“You and a pet? Don’t do that to a little creature.”
“Ha. You know animals love me. I’m going to Hickory tomorrow and get me a dog to carry around.”
“Say you’re joking.”
“Who’s joking? Won’t I be cute?”
“When did you start liking dogs?”
“I never said I like them. I need something to keep me company at the shop.”
“Well if anyone can get away with having one of those mutts, you can. But don’t bring him to my house. I hate those yappy things.”
“I’m not getting a yappy dog. I want a German shepherd I can carry on my back.”
Sylvia’s laughter came in a burst that even she didn’t expect. “I don’t know why I try to have a conversation with you.” Sylvia sighed, her first moment of real relaxation in days. She reached to the floor for a magazine. “Is this Beyoncé?” The woman on the cover was all but naked with her lips parted in a way men must find sexy, like they were about to say something but decided to keep it to themselves after all. She looked like a dummy mouth breather to Sylvia.
“You know they’re not all Beyoncé don’t you?” Lana shook her head like Sylvia was beyond help.
“She looks like her. What does that giant Afro mean? Is that supposed to be funny?”
“They’re all doing it. I was in Walmart and some teenager says to me, ‘team natural.’ Team natural! I always have natural hair.” Lana laughed. “Kids think they invent everything. You know how much time and grease-relief it takes to get a natural hairdo.” Lana twisted her lips. “You can go on the Internet and find, I don’t know how many videos about the hundred steps you do to get your natural look. Well you can’t find it, but most people can.”
Sylvia stood in front of one of the two shampoo bowls and raked through her hair with her fingers. “God I got old. Look at me.” Sylvia didn’t imagine herself a teenager or even fifty but she didn’t think of herself as an old lady usually. She wanted to ask some stranger how old she looked. As tempted as she was to find out she thought she wouldn’t survive the answer.
“I’m not looking at you,” Lana said.
“Why not? Am I that bad?”
“No more than usual. But you get mad too quick. Here, make yourself useful, help me pack up this stuff up so we can get out of here.”
Sylvia adjusted her chin-length bob back into a ponytail. She sucked her cheeks. “Everybody else says I look good.”
“They don’t say young, do they?”
Sylvia cut her eyes at Lana. “JJ thought Marcus was my boyfriend.”
“Hmm.” Lana laughed. “I should just keep my mouth closed.”
“I’ve got too much on my mind today. I feel like I’ve wasted my life.” Sylvia glanced up a Lana to gauge her reaction. She had not meant to say the exact thing she was thinking.
“Well stand outside. The last think I need is bad juju.”
“I can’t tell you nothing can I?” Sylvia snorted. “The Simmy’s light was still on when I rode through town. You going before they close?”
“I haven’t been in that nasty place for fifteen years and I see no reason to end the streak.” Lana peered out the window. She had to crane her neck to see the lit sign. Years ago when Lana was young, she stood with her mother at the Simmy’s pick-up window. Even from their vantage point outside the building they could see the white diners inside, the cheap Formica-topped tables, the glint of silver napkin holders and ketchup bottles visible through the commerce in the kitchen. “Did somebody die, do you know?” Lana asked.
“Who knows what the real story is. The kids don’t want to do it. Too much work. I don’t go in there anyway.” Sylvia couldn’t remember the last time she wanted to go into Simmy’s.
“What do you care then?”
“I don’t. I’m just making conversation. I don’t care,” Sylvia said, but she couldn’t put into words that she was glad to have outlasted the place. Not managing to die had become a triumph.
“I sure as hell don’t. It looked like a fifties whore in there as worn and tacky.” Lana said.