A Rainy Day at the Nail Beauty Shop

The glass door of the nail beauty shop had barely been pushed open an inch when the pouring rain swept inside, carried by the wind. Raindrops struck the doormat, forming dark, soaking circles. I instinctively hunched my shoulders; my fingertips, freshly done with crystal nails, gleamed delicately under the warm yellow light. The pinkish-purple gel polish sparkled with fine glitter, like crushed stars—it was a new style recommended by the attendant, Mindy. "The rain outside is too heavy. Let's wait a little longer." Mindy wore a pink uniform, the ends of her hair curling in a playful wave. She smiled as she handed me a cup of lemonade, tiny droplets clinging to the glass. "Just brewed, with a bit of honey to soothe your throat." I took the cup; my fingertips touched the cold glass, and a faint warmth stirred inside me. I nodded slightly, then settled onto a sofa by the window. The sofa was draped in light gray linen, cushioned with a soft cashmere blanket embroidered with understated rose patterns along the edges. On the metal rack in the corner lay several of the latest fashion magazines, their cover models clad in this season's trending tulle skirts. Raindrops pattered against the glass, like countless hands urgently knocking. The neon lights across the street blurred through rain and mist—reds, blues, yellows—spreading into hazy swaths of color on the glass. Occasionally, a car passed by, the sound of its tires rolling through puddles sharp and clear, splashing water onto the flower beds at the roadside, startling a few sparrows hiding in the rose bushes. I flipped open a magazine, my fingertips gliding over the smooth, glossy pages. An article about summer fashion caught my attention; I was engrossed in reading when I heard Mindy chatting casually with her colleagues nearby. "Mia was in a terrible mood today—she even scolded Amy this morning." "Who could blame her? She had a fight with Mr. Young last night—I heard it was quite the scene." "Hasn't Mr. Young always been quite generous with her? That last bag, I heard it cost six figures." I closed the book and gazed out the window. The rain showed no sign of easing; instead, driven by the wind, it slammed diagonally against the glass. My mobile phone screen lit up briefly — a message from my mother asking when I'd be home for dinner. "Soon, Mom, just waiting for the rain to stop," I replied. Unaware of the time passing, I had already drained more than half of the lemonade in my cup. I glanced at my watch; it was 7:30 already, exactly two hours since my nails were done. The delicate watch on her wrist was a birthday gift from Mark Young last year; its silver chain had been polished smooth, catching the light. At that moment, a woman in a luxury suit walked over. She wore a cream-colored tweed coat, black wide-leg trousers, and a pair of stiletto sandals; the heels tapped sharply on the floor with a rhythmic sound. Her lips were painted a fiery red—true red that made her skin appear exceptionally pale—though the fine lines at the corners of her eyes were faintly visible in the light, and her gaze held a trace of impatience. "Hello, I am the owner of this salon, Mia Scott." She stood before me, chin slightly raised, looking down at me with quiet authority. Her perfume was strong—a mix of rose and musk, slightly overpowering. I looked away from the magazine and smiled politely, "Hello." "The rain has let up quite a bit; time to go, right?" Mia Scott's tone suddenly chilled; her gaze, sharp as ice, swept over the handbag I'd left on the sofa—a discreet black leather bag with no visible logo, my favorite minimalist style. I was just about to stand up when she stepped forward, firmly blocking my path. The heel of her high heels sank into the carpet's texture, producing a faint scraping sound. "Wait, let's settle the venue fee first." I was stunned, doubting I had heard wrong: "What venue fee?" "You've been hiding from the rain in my shop for two hours, taking up space and affecting business," Mia Scott pulled a silver calculator from her pocket and tapped it lightly, producing a crisp sound. "Charging you five thousand isn't too much, right?" "This is unreasonable," my voice tightened, my fingers unconsciously clutching the water cup, droplets on the cup's surface sticking to my fingertips. "I was just waiting here for the rain to stop, without using any extra services." Mia Scott suddenly laughed, her voice sharp and grating, like nails scraping glass: "Unreasonable? Either pay five thousand or load a three hundred thousand membership card. Take your pick." "I'm not paying." I set down the glass of water, clutching the strap of my handbag tightly; inside were my mobile phone, wallet, and a document I'd just collected — the project plan for next week, freshly printed that afternoon. "Refuse a toast and you get forced to drink, huh?" Mia Scott suddenly reached out and shoved me; her nails painted a deep purple, they grazed my arm with a sharp sting. "No money today, don't even think about walking out that door!" I staggered back two steps, my lower back striking the corner of the rosewood tea table behind me hard. A sharp pain spread from my lower back like a needle driven deep inside. I gasped sharply, barely steadying myself by clutching the sofa armrest. The scented candle on the tea table flickered, its flame dancing behind the glass cover.