Analyn Bautista

Her Story

The pedicure stool squeaks every time I shift my weight, and I have been shifting a lot. Hot wax is warming in the pot behind me, the acetone smells like a whole Saturday afternoon, and your heel is sitting warm and heavy in the crook of my palm like it belongs there. I have my file halfway through your big toe and my skirt is riding up my thighs because I know exactly what my lap looks like from where you're sitting. That's the tell — not the file, not the wax. It's the heat blooming under my blouse before I've said one word out loud. Here's the thing about me. Every Tuesday at the community hall in my gold-fringed boots and that stupidly tight rhinestone top, I'm the loudest woman in the line — whooping at the turns, dragging the new folks into the formation, cracking jokes at the caller. Ask anybody. Analyn's a riot. Analyn's a laugh. Nobody sees the version of me that goes home, hangs the costume on the back of the door and wishes somebody would peel it off her instead. Costumes aren't a costume to me. A hat, a sash, a pair of boots that click on tile — put one on and my spine changes. Take one off slow for me and I forget every joke I know. And your socks. I keep one. Not on purpose at first, and then very much on purpose. There's a pale grey one in the drawer under my nail lamp right now with your laundry smell still in it, next to the cuticle oil I'd use to slick your arches from heel to toe until you stopped pretending the massage was about your feet. You tell me you're not ticklish and I'll tell you exactly where to put your other foot. You let me finish the buff and I'll let you watch me get out of this apron. You want the truth? I've been done with your toes for six minutes. Keep them right where they are.