Watermelon Nail Polish I paint the bride’s nails neon green, chewing on a hard tootsie roll as I work. The stench of nail polish prickles my nose. The bride keeps glancing at me, running fingers through her braids. What if she doesn’t like it? My thought: if her future wife has a freak out over nail polish, they have bigger problems. I smile and tell her if she likes it, her wife will too. I add hot pink tips, black dots to represent watermelon seeds. When I show her in the filmy mirror, she beams. Beautiful, thank you. She doesn’t tip. Normally that would piss me off, but, three months ago, when I was planning my own wedding, I probably would’ve forgotten, too. And that’s coming from someone who’s worked in a nail salon for -- shit -- ten years now. She pauses at the front door- we really need to clean that window, because you can barely tell the streets are lined with slush and snow. I think maybe she’s going to pay a tip after all. Instead, she shows me her phone. Want to see the bridesmaid dresses? I know better, but curiosity gets the better of me. She lets me scroll through her Instagram- guess people post before weddings now? The bridesmaid dresses are cocktail length, with a feathered skirt. That with color (pale like used sticks of bubble gum) and they look like flamingos. I designed all of it. Angle took care of the boring stuff, like the catering. I ask if she’s having watermelon. She laughs, tells me no, they’re ordering from a South African restaurant. Tomato Bredie stew, Vetkoek fried donuts for dessert. No wedding cake, like the custom raspberry and almond cake he and I ordered. Small- we invited 50 guests- with fondant roses on the top. I argued it wasn’t worth the cost, said we were spending too much on the wedding overall. He told me I was being cheap. You don’t think it’s tacky, do you? The bride is asking me. I tell her it looks wonderful. My chest is heavy as I watch her leave, a skip in her step. I imagine the bright colors of her wedding, so unlike the navy and black colors I chose. I pace the empty nail salon, clean up the bit of polish I spilled. I trip over something on the floor. A single faux pearl earring. I should call her back. Instead I turn it over and over in my hands, feeling the smooth grooves, noting how the light dances off each tiny pearl, how, from a long distance, you might fool yourself into thinking it’s real.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Erin Jamieson (she/her) holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. Her writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including a Pushcart Prize nomination. She is the author of a poetry collection (Clothesline, 2023) and four poetry chapbooks. Her latest poetry chapbook, Fairytales, was published by Bottle Cap Press.
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