Page 5 of When the Fake Snow Falls

“Wanted to keep your freedom?”

The way this woman chuffs a laugh makes my entire body tense. “I wanted to sleep with his brother.” She lists on her fingers. “And his boss, and his friend, and the last one was just boring.” She gives a careless wave of her hand as if cheating on multiple husbands is the same thing every woman goes through.

I keep my eyes fixed on her hair as I nod. As a hairdresser, I’m used to getting some interesting confessions, but I don’t trust my face if I look her in the eye. Talk about shiny object syndrome. I feel sorry for any man who crosses paths with a woman like Nicolette.

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After foilingan entire head of highlights and squeezing in a last-minute haircut, I’m done for the day. By the time I clean my station, I’m the last one in the salon. Even Amanda left a little over an hour ago. Sometimes it’s nice being the last one here. The place is always chaotic with everyone’s overlapping conversations and the constant sound of cabinets slamming and hair dryers blowing.

The smell of a million different chemicals and shampoos fills the air all day, but when it’s just me, and my last client was a simple haircut, it feels like the dust has settled. Turning off the overhead lights, I welcome the soft glow of the Christmas lights outside. I throw my bag over my shoulder, lock up, and head toward my apartment a few blocks away. It’s still warm, but there’s a light breeze tonight. I hug my cardigan around myself, more out of comfort than a need for actual warmth, but at least the heat of the day has broken.

I open the text thread with the guy from the coffee shop. I haven’t learned his name yet, but I know that’s something I should ask soon. I read over his two messages from earlier.

Unknown Number:

Palm trees and Christmas lights go together like pineapple on pizza.

Do people do it? Yes. Should they? Absolutely not.

Most of my afternoon was swamped, but I was able to send a quick text before my last cut of the day.

Candace:

What if I told you I love pineapple on pizza?

I sent that message over an hour ago. Maybe loving pineapple on pizza is a deal breaker. It would be ridiculous, but people these days will walk away for less. Going back to my messages, I tap on the thread with my roommate.

Candace:

I’ll grab tacos if you pick up tequila?

His response comes in right away.

Miles:

Fuck yes.

I figured his answer would be along those lines. It’s rare for Miles and me to disagree on much, let alone tacos and booze. Taking a slight detour, I head to our favorite place downtown.

Paco’s Tacos hits me with the incredible scent of spices as soon as I open the door. My stomach grumbles, the smell of my favorite food serving as the perfect reminder that I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

Loud chatter fills the small space, with the staff yelling orders back and forth from their tiny, open kitchen. This place is always packed, but the line usually moves quickly. My phone vibrates, and my heart drums as I check for any sign of the guy from the coffee shop.

He still hasn’t sent me anything. All I have is a text from my mom, making sure Miles will be home for Christmas to keep me company.

I text her back as I step forward in line, reassuring her that Miles and I will have a great time celebrating in our apartment, and she shouldn’t worry about abandoning us for her hippy friends. It might have been the wrong thing to say to a woman already riddled with guilt, but I only have to reassure her I wasdefinitely jokingtwice.

My eyes scan the menu board above, and my stomach growls again. I know my eyes are bigger than my stomach right now, but I also have a hefty tip from Nicolette in my wallet. I’d usually need to put it toward my car payment, but she referred another one of her friends this week who took care of that, so I decide to order whatever I want as soon as it’s my turn.

I somewhat regret my decision when the brown paper bag is heavier than I expected, and I’m a few blocks from home. I still have my car, but it doesn’t get much use outside of visiting my parents—or when it rains.

Luckily, our apartment is on the first floor, so I don’t have to scale multiple flights with my giant bag of tacos, but I’ve still broken a sweat by the time I make it through the lobby. Balancing the bag on my knee, I fumble with the key when a commotion sounds from above.

“There arose such a clatter,” I say quietly to myself and wonder what the guy who lives there is up to now. We’ve never seen him, but I like to imagine him as an elderly man with a bushy white mustache. Our very own St. Nick, except his name is Lenny.

Another thud from overhead makes me look up as I open the front door. We asked a few neighbors about it when we first moved in, unsure if we should file a noise complaint, but they all referred to him fondly saying things like, “Oh, that’s just Lenny. He’s always building something.”

So now, Miles and I try to embrace the spirit of Lenny with fondness, too. He’s never loud late at night, so we really have nothing to complain about.

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