I'm going to write something about the girl giving me a manicure. I bet she has no idea that while we are inches away from each other, and my hand is in hers, I am actually thinking about her and why her face looks familiar. Granted it isn't my first time here and I already have some rule set up about how the girl who's no good at bodywork is great at manicure and vice versa but this girl is neither of these persons. She looks like some lost classmate. I remember this girl who recognized me from high school. I'm not very good with names. But I'm pretty good with faces.
Anyway the girl is messing up the blue, which is nowhere near the Star of Bombay nail polish I was expecting. But, surprise surprise, it is the ultra blue of fast cars and I love it.
There are a couple of other girls who got the same package I did. I wonder if they knew how old they looked like. I'm thirty-one now, look who's talking.
I think about the totality of my life and the pain in one of my fingers she probably over-cleaned and trying to recall when I set the email I sent to my future self would ever arrive and would it say nice things.
Aha, now onto the foot.