Tiny hairs kept getting stuck in wet nail polish. Pet hair, cat hair. Or was it pubic? Curly and black. It all looked the same. More likely it was that the bristles of the polish brush were breaking and spilt-ending so that when she went to spread fresh drops of color on her oval shaped bones, the hairs would get stuck. That the bristles were breaking like her own hair would indicate that she had painted her nails for the third time that day.
Because of indecision. She had switched from wanting the salad to wanting the soup to wanting the Nutella tart at lunch, all within the matter of five minutes and when the waitress finally came, she asked for a few more minutes and when, she had finally decided that something light would be best, she blurted out Quiche to the waitress without really knowing if it was on the menu. It was.
Because of bordem. Painting nails passed the time, gave her something to focus on.
Because of the excuse it provided- for example: something like taking out the garbage rendered itself quite impossible and she could simply say to no one in particular "my nails are wet" and not feel guilty or lazy.
Because smoking. If her hands were busy, she would not smoke. And she was, of course, trying to quit.
She was painting over Crest* white nails with a shade called
"Vegabondage" which was a color that looked like gummy flesh, the healthy kind you'd find way up top of where your teeth started protruding, if you were to say, spread your top and bottom lips open wide enough with your index and middle fingers.
When she found the bottle and read the bottom where the name was printed in tiny black lettering, she had envisioned the pink as something sexy.
But as the pink liquid began to melt into evenly drying strips, it was somehow not. And on her, it even became girly.
Vegabondage , it occurred to her, was not even an activity.
But beauty did not have to make any sense. She knew that well enough, and she loved it so.
She painted her nails. But not her toes - not yet. Though it was November, and though it was warm enough for open-toed shoes (but not exactly opened toe shoes, like sandals) it was more the kind of weather for those ludicrous boots with a peep toe cut out. It was perfect weather for impractical boots with the peep toe.
But she had not painted them. The weather made just about as much sense as the boots had, and so, wearing socks (very much opposite of any open anything) seemed much more sensible.
Her toe nails remained bare then. In a non-sexual, Vegabond kind of way. And most certainly without the bondage.
Besides, she was never patient enough for the first coat to dry before applying the second.
And as she looked at the freshly painted ten, she wondered if she'd had any acetone left in the bathroom.