“There’s nothing like sitting out on my dock, watching the sun set over the stream, with Oscar and a glass of red wine,” Carlotta said. She got out the clippers and set up the moisturizing liquid. Nice and warm on my hands, always felt smooth.
“It sounds lovely,” I said, as if savoring a holiday meal after dieting on a deserted island for a month. Since I’d given up drinking in September, my own guilty pleasures revolved around ritual visits to manhunt or bigmuscle websites.
“Ever since Charlie left, geez – how many years was that? Oscar’s been my pride and joy. Much better than having a man in the house. But he’s getting a little old now, and can’t jump up on the kitchen counter anymore –“
“Be thankful for life’s blessings,” I said, thinking of Peebles and the broken Wedgewood china. “You’re safe from broken antiques now.”
“Every time you come in here, your nails are always cut real close,” Carlotta said. “I never have to trim them. Those yellow toenails, however –“
“I can’t control them, they grow like wildfire. Like my hair.”
She gave me a hearty, throaty laugh. “You do have a bird’s nest on top of your head there. But you never tell me why you come to a manicurist when your nails are always microscope short.”
Did I know Carlotta well enough to tell her? I could just say, I play the piano, always cut them short so I don’t clickety-clack on the keys. But I could tell her the truth, when I get nervous, I pick at my lips until they bleed. Geeeerrrrrrroooooooooooossssssss.
“Maybe you can get a second cat for Oscar. Call him Felix.”
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