Lady Macbeth at the Nail Salon

She tells you not to stare at the blood. You say that her hand is clean, a bit too clean, in fact, all papery and raw. You tell her she doesn’t have to soak her fingers, but she insists. Says she likes the way the bubbles tickle her nostrils, that the lemon scent soothes her down. You ask her why she’s so jittery, her fingers shaking like twigs. She asks if you are married. “If you were,” she says, “you’d understand.” She looks around the nail salon, the ferns spilling out of their baskets, the hum of drying fans. “You like all this?” she asks you. “Doing manicures all day?” She tilts her head toward the salon owner, squatty and cat-eyed, sprawled out in a pedicure chair. She is eating a salad like you don’t have time for. “Wouldn’t you rather do that?” she asks and you realize how happy you have been all this time not being happy. You think about your husband, his late nights working and so little to show. The lemon starts to tickle your nostrils. You take Lady Macbeth’s hand, your fingers entwined. What felt like twigs feels steely and strong. She pulls her hand from yours and hands you a nail file. She looks at you and then at the owner. “Yes,” you think, “yes.” You think how nice it would be to tell your husband he could quit his job at night and keep you company. You wonder why it’s taken till now for you to realize this, and is it possible you’ve been sleeping all this time?