Neon pink, please.

A Story by Janessa

Slowly creeping into the parking lot, she looks carefully to make sure no one’s speeding around the corner. Everyone is always in such a hurry to get from A to Z that they forget there are other letters in between. There’s a parking spot under the tree, out of the hot summer sun, but she takes the one nobody wants instead because by the time ten o’clock rolls around it wont be quite as unbearable as it is now.

Parked as far away as possible, with the windows still down, she lets the radio finish playing the latest tune by some artist that wont matter in a month. The air is stagnant and damp, and it seems more like an eighty percent chance of rain rather than the forty the weather man so insisted upon. The only reason she cared had nothing to do with where she was going, but because it was always the topic of conversation, whether she liked it or not.

The seemingly too catchy, almost pop, rock song leaves the airwaves with a drawn out note that will replay in her mind for the next minute and a half until she enters the building and hears nothing but oldies hits on repeat for eight hours. Windows are now up, doors are locked, and keys, cards and phone are in hand.

Stepping out into the sauna, she glances around to find familiar vehicles reflecting who her company would be for the night. The usual crew along with a couple trainees. Nothing new. Walking toward the building her sense of smell goes wild. Cigarette smoke is the first and last thing she ever smells here, and all she’s reminded of are the regulars with their yellowed teeth and incessant stench that lingers long after they’re gone.

There’s only one odor strong enough to cover it up, and luckily that’s the second one to reach her before she gets to the entrance. The fan in the door, sending the fumes of the nail salon out and into the back parking lot, is almost a savior. While certainly incredibly toxic, the smell of acetone is comforting and full of nostalgia. She could care less about her nails, bites them constantly actually, but some of her fondest memories revolve around this scent.

She closes her eyes while steadily walking through the covered walkway, and takes a deep breath to let the toxic, acetone infused oxygen fill her lungs for the last time before lunch break. The memories flood in as she takes her final steps toward the automatic door, already open and rushing her to clock in and serve the public.

Her senses, confused, think they’re back in 1997. A year when friends were friends for life without the ridiculous abbreviations, the best gifts were handmade, and brightly colored nail polish solved all the problems of a preteen girl.

And if it didn’t? Hell, there was always acetone.