oh you

The faintest traces of red nail polish around my cuticles are the only remnants of the manicure I had last week. A nice Asian man with a a soft voice and long thumbnails trimmed, buffed, and polished my nails for me. I was grateful to him for not trying to talk to me too much or commenting on the rough callus on one of my thumbs. As we sat with the California sunshine streaming through the windows he tells me I look like my sister who is a regular at his salon. He asks me if it’s my first time there, which it was not. I compulsively told him that I don’t live there, that I was visiting from another state. From Utah, I added sheepishly. I tell him how it’s cold there and I’m happy to be in the desert where I don’t have to where a coat in December or worry about snow in my shoes. He told me that he lived in Canada for six years and then in New Jersey for eight years, so he understands about the snow. We commiserated about how hard it is to shovel snow. He used to work nights, he said, and would have to shovel the lane and paths at his house in Canada after he got off his shift early in the morning. I felt bad for him because he had to work nights and found myself wondering what his job was and if his English was as good back then. Then I started to wonder about how he came to be a manicurist in a small California town and why he left his country of origin. I don’t feel like I can ask him questions about his personal life since we only met seven minutes ago and after another ten minutes our relationship will be over. But I like the man with a soft voice and rough hands who asks polite questions and compliments the nail polish that I brought from home. I found that I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to think that I was different from all the ladies who come in for full sets of acrylic nails with long, square, white tips. “I’m different!” I say with my half smiles that reach my eyes and unassuming, plain nail polish. I have thought about you soft voice man. I hope you liked me.