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Luna switches the music to one of the mumbling teen girls she adores. Would Imogen like the artist? She was wearing a band shirt, but, for some reason, I keep picturing her in nothing but the combat boots she wore to her appointment.
The ring of the bell distracts me from my dirty thoughts.
Luna waits until the client leaves, and the door swings shut, then she clears her throat. "Earth to Patrick."
"You're Earth?" I ask.
"Mars to Patrick?" she offers.
"Venus."
"You think I'm the goddess of beauty? That's sweet."
"But you prefer the god of war?" I ask.
"Why not both?" She smiles and her grey-green eyes light up. She's not sunshine, exactly, but she's pretty damn joyful.
She's good for Oliver, the world's grumpiest tattoo artist (and trust me, that is some stiff competition).
Speaking of the recently sober artist—"Is Oliver in?"
"Luna, it's great to see you today. I love your outfit. Very chic." She motions to her snug black dress.
"You look hot."
"Okay, that's boy for chic."
"Is he in?"
She clears her throat. "Let's try again."
"You are working the counter?" I ask.
"I'm not trolling for johns."
"You're filling in as our assistant manager over the summer?" I ask.
"Yes," she says.
"Does that not leave you in charge of scheduling?"
She makes ahmmnoise. "Even so." She motions to me. "One more shot, Tricky. 'Luna, you look great today.'"
"Does it need to be about how you look?"
"Anything. As long as it's not a question about my boyfriend."
I'm tempted to fuck with her. She hates when I refer to her as Oliver's girlfriend.
In theory, I get it. She wants to be her own person. She doesn't want a qualifier. But there's something about the idea of belonging to someone—
It's kinda nice.
Luna clears her throat.
"You look great today, Luna. Is that a new dress?" I try.
"It is. Thanks for noticing." She smiles. "No, Oliver isn't working today. He's off this week."
