Nancy

Astoria, New York

In Queens, a manicure costs $8 — which, to a San Francisco Bay Area girl, is ludicrously low. Of course, we went.

Nancy made gray sweatpants and a black smock look stylish. Her ponytail was enviable, full with just the right amount of pouf in the front. She started pushing my cuticles back.

"Do you like this music?" I asked, nodding up to the large screen TV behind her playing Top-40 artist music videos.  

She shakes her head. "I never even see the videos." 

I want to tell her she's not missing anything, just idealized women making ducklips while they sing, and faux-soulful men crooning with kiss-me eyes. Except you can't tell someone who spends their days facing away from a screen that sort of thing.

Nancy is from Mexico City. She moved to New York nine years ago. 

"How long have you been doing nails?" I asked. 

She lowers her voice. "Do you want the truth?"

"Of course!" 

"Five months." 

I couldn't help but laugh. That seemed like a pretty long time to me. She giggled, too, then continued, "But I can't stay here too much longer." 

"Why is that?" I asked. 

"I'm pregnant." 

Get out of here, I want to tell her. The fumes. The toxins. The baby. Instead, I said what is expected. "Oh, congratulations!" 

"We've been trying for three years. This is the best Christmas gift ever. The best birthday gift, my birthday is tomorrow. The best 2017 gift." She's glowing, she's rambling. She's almost bouncing in her chair. 

"What did the doctor say about working here?" 

"He told me to wear a mask, but..." I could see her smile, her white teeth the little white picket fence she's already dreaming of. "...We work 10 hour days, so I won't be able to do that five days a week once the baby comes." 

I don't ask her about politics, or society, or anything else. Instead, we talk about California, the beach, and work.