The Nail Tech
"His girlfriend sends him to pick up her nails. The tech is fit. He keeps finding reasons to come back. Eventually she asks if he wants a private appointment."
"Babe, can you pick up my nails? I'm stuck at work."
That's how it starts. My girlfriend needs her acrylics from some salon in the shopping centre. Simple enough.
I walk in expecting... I don't know what. Middle-aged women, maybe. Boring.
What I find is Kayleigh.
She's tiny—can't be more than five-two—but everything about her is extra.
Lashes that could take flight. Nails that could double as weapons. Makeup so precise it's basically art. She's petite, slim, with curves that her tight dress emphasises rather than hides.
"You're here for... Jenny? The pink coffin shape?"
"That's her."
"Right." She reaches under the counter, pulls out a box. "Tell her to take better care of these. She keeps breaking them."
"I'll pass that on."
She smiles. I forget to breathe.
Week Two
Jenny breaks a nail. I offer to drop off the repair.
"You again?" Kayleigh's smile is knowing. "Your girlfriend's very clumsy."
"Very."
"And you're very helpful, coming all the way here." She takes the broken nail, examines it. "Takes about thirty minutes. Want to wait?"
I want to wait.
I watch her work while pretending to scroll my phone.
Her hands are precise, delicate, working with tools I couldn't name. She hums along to the radio—some pop song I should recognize—and occasionally catches my eye in the mirror.
"You're staring."
"Sorry."
"Don't be." She doesn't look up from the nail. "I like it."
Week Three
I come back without an excuse.
"Let me guess—another broken nail?"
"Actually..." I don't have a good lie prepared. "I was just passing."
"Just passing." She raises an eyebrow. "The nail salon in the back corner of the shopping centre. Very believable."
"Okay, fine. I wanted to see you."
Her smile changes—becomes something warmer, more real.
"There it is." She glances around the salon; it's quiet, mid-afternoon. "I'm on break in ten. Fancy a coffee?"
Coffee becomes our thing.
I come by during her breaks—thirty minutes every few days—and we sit in the food court talking about everything. Her job, my job. Her dreams of opening her own salon. My complete lack of dreams.
"You're wasted at that warehouse," she says.
"Most people are wasted where they work."
"Not me." She examines her own nails, perfect as always. "I love this. Making people feel beautiful. It's not just nails—it's confidence."
"You've definitely got confidence."
"I've got everything, babes." She winks. "Just waiting for someone to appreciate it."
Week Four
Jenny and I break up.
It's mutual, mostly. We'd been going through the motions for months. The only reason I'm sad is... I won't have excuses to visit the salon anymore.
I text Kayleigh: Not gonna be picking up any more nails.
Why not?
Broke up with Jenny.
A long pause. Then: Come see me anyway.
Without the girlfriend excuse, things feel different.
I stand at her counter, suddenly nervous.
"So you're single now," she says.
"Yeah."
"Interesting." She taps her perfect nails on the counter. "I've been wondering what your angle was. Now I know."
"I didn't have an angle. I just—"
"Liked looking at me?"
"Yeah."
"Good." She glances at the clock. "I close up in an hour. Want to help?"
Closing up means pulling down shutters, cashing out, wiping down stations.
It also means being alone with her.
"I don't usually do this," she says, not looking at me. "Mix business with... whatever this is."
"What is this?"
She turns, fixes me with those ridiculous lashes.
"This is me deciding whether to fuck you in my back room."
I nearly swallow my tongue.
"And?"
"And I've decided yes."
The back room is tiny—storage, mostly, with a small break area.
She pushes me onto the worn sofa and climbs into my lap, all five-two of her fitting perfectly.
"I've been thinking about this for weeks," she breathes against my mouth.
"Just weeks?"
"Since you walked in looking lost and fit." She kisses me, her tongue piercing clicking against my teeth. "Now shut up and kiss me back."
She's smaller than anyone I've been with.
Light enough to pick up, to move, to position however I want. But she's also fierce—biting, scratching, demanding more.
"Harder—come on—I'm not made of glass—"
I give her harder. She comes undone on that break room sofa, all perfect makeup and ruined hair, nails digging into my shoulders.
When I finish, she laughs.
"We should've done this weeks ago."
"Your rules."
"My rules are stupid." She kisses me, soft now. "Come back tomorrow. During lunch. We'll do it again."
Tomorrow becomes the next day. And the next.
I'm at the salon so often people probably think I'm getting my nails done. Let them.
Three months later, she opens her own place—tiny, just two chairs, but hers.
"I need a receptionist," she says. "Someone who can handle bookings and... difficult clients."
"I don't know anything about nails."
"You know about me." She hooks her arms around my neck. "That's all you need."
I quit the warehouse. Work reception at her salon.
It's bizarre—sitting there while women come and go, watching my girlfriend work her magic. But it's also perfect.
"Never thought I'd find a man at the nail bar," she tells people.
"Never thought I'd pick up nails and put down roots," I reply.
It's cheesy. She loves it.
And honestly? So do I.