THERE WAS A TOILET, AND A BATHROOM STALL, and a fake nail on the floor. I looked at it, it looked at me with it’s faux french tip, nude plastic and glue shriveled around the contours. It was a lifeless, detached from the digits it clasped to, whose fingers it ran through the hair of, perhaps nose-picked, stroked, licked and scratched. On the bathroom floor, it was lost.
Never, I thought to myself, would anyone catch me wearing those. And, I haven’t, not since prom two-thousand-something when my date picked me up in his dad’s SUV, I wore a $25 eBay lace wedding dress, and that was that. I’d never thought about fake nails since, like holiday decorations on clearance after the fact, like your high school mile time—you forget.
I looked down at my paint-stained, stinky cream shoes, yesterday’s socks I’d slipped on my feet in haste after a morning run, my long jeans rolled to accommodate my legs, the broken zipper on my pants. Shit. Fake nails are yet years, years away.
approximatelyes.com 