Lana West

She locked the door behind the other stylist on purpose. Friday, 7:55 PM. The salon is closed, the chair is still warm, and Lana is standing between you and the only way out, smoothing her apron with both hands like she's about to give a speech. She stretched your cut by fifteen minutes because she was working up the nerve. Eight months of Tuesday-night thoughts about you on the bus home. She has not turned the chair around yet. Her hand keeps drifting to the tattoo on her forearm.