There are a handful of institutions I hold sacred. The long, hot bath. Shared or otherwise. The well-timed exit. The standing lunch reservation that requires no explanation. And the girls’ pedicure - which is not, I should clarify, about the pedicure.
It is never about the pedicure.
We had claimed our corner of the salon the way we claim any space — not loudly or aggressively, but with the calm certainty of people who know they belong somewhere and have decided this is the place. Four chairs. Four glasses of something properly sparkling. Four women who had, between them, accumulated enough living to make the afternoon very interesting indeed.
My Siren to the left was mid-story — something involving a renovation contractor, a misunderstanding and what she described as “a revelation about what I will and will not tolerate in my personal spaces.” We were fully invested. The champagne was excellent.
And then the door opened.
I will not describe her in detail, because some observations are better kept as impressions. She was precisely the kind of woman who enters a room and does not appear to know- or care- that she has changed it. This, I have found, is the most dangerous kind. And the most interesting.
She was waiting for someone. She checked her phone. With the particular posture of a person who is entirely comfortable being still, which is rarer than it sounds and considerably more compelling than most realize. She, however, realized and embraced it.
I returned my attention to my Sirens. Mostly.
· · ·
The afternoon unfolded the way the best pedicure afternoons do — in long, unhurried loops of conversation that circle back and forward and occasionally surprise you with their depth. We had started somewhere around weekend plans and arrived, without quite noticing the journey, at a conversation about reinvention.
“Do you think people can actually change,” said the Siren to my right, not quite as a question, “or do they just change what they’re willing to show?”
We sat with that for a moment. The bubbling footbaths provided an excellent thinking soundtrack.
“Both,” I said. “And neither. Although, sometimes the second leads to the first.”
I admit I was just a touch distracted as I glanced at the her, my thoughts and energy swirled towards hers. We both noticed as the air between us began to dance, thoughtfully.
My Siren considered my comment. And my distraction. Nodded once. Picked up her glass. This is, yes, why I love and keep her.
I was wearing my sheer beach dress over my leopard one-piece because it was that kind of afternoon — the kind that begins at the salon and has potential to become something else entirely, and a woman who knows this dresses accordingly. My Sirens had arrived in various states of ‘running errands that somehow required full styling,’ which is to say we all understood the assignment.
Across the room, She who had changed nothing and everything by walking through a door was now reviewing something on her phone with an expression of mild amusement. As if life kept delivering small jokes she had decided to finally find funny rather than merely distracting.
I found this, against my better instincts, rather appealing.
My Siren- the one on my far left, noticed me noticing. She said nothing. She simply refilled my glass, which is the correct response and one of the many reasons we have been friends for decades.
· · ·
Deep into the second bottle with a spirited debate about whether one can truly be both spontaneous and well-prepared - I maintain one absolutely can, the others were divided — my phone lit up on the armrest.
I glanced at it.
Read it.
Set it face-down.
My Sirens watched me do this with the practiced attentiveness of women who have known me long enough to read the architecture of a pause. Friends that were, after all, family.
“Sharing, Darling?” Yes, I have been called Darling by my Ladies too. Occasionally. When appropriate. As was now.
I picked up my champagne. Took a considered sip. Looked toward the window at the afternoon, which was having her way beautifully with the light.
“Possibly,” I said.
Which is, as answers go, completely accurate and entirely unhelpful, and they knew it, and I knew they knew it, and we all smiled. We clinked glasses in the knowing way of women who understand that some cards are held close not out of secrecy but out of the simple pleasure of holding them a little longer before you play.
Across the room, a chair adjusted. I did not look up but prickled as I felt the energy of the room exhale.
I was not surprised to hear the door shut.
