Free The Cheating Curve by Paula T Renfroe Page A

Madison and Thirty-Third.
    “Okay, Langston, dear, come on back,” Guadalupe said a torturous hour and a half later. She’d skimmed through the July and August issues of Essence and studied the latest issues of Sister 2 Sister , Us Weekly, and In Touch , her direct and indirect competition. “So sorry for the delay, my dear.”
    “I’m the one who should apologize,” Lang said. “I got held up in Union Square and lost complete track of time.”
    “Are we doing your upper lip, too, dear?” Guadalupe asked.
    “If it needs to be done, sure, why not.”
    As Guadalupe spread the hot wax between her brows, it reminded Lang that she needed to schedule a Brazilian with Babbi at Bliss Soho. Babbi’d been out on maternity leave, and Lang simply did not trust anyone else to shape up her lust nest. Other salons and spas had left her completely bald and, quite frankly, humiliated. Other aestheticians at Bliss didn’t quite understand exactly how much hair she wanted to leave on her mound.
    Lang required what she called a Brazilian Basic Bikini Combo, and Babbi understood her vagina vision like no one else. No hairs between her butt cheeks or her perineum, none between or on her outer labia either, but please do leave just enough hair for a nice, even, medium-width (not too thick, not too thin), not-quite-a-bush, upside-down pyramid (not a landing strip, nor Hitler’s mustache)—a nice, full, inverted triangle that came to a precise point right above her clit. She’d call them on Monday and see if Babbi was back. Otherwise she’d be rocking a fuzzy-wuzzy for a few more days.
    “Is there anyway you can squeeze me in for a quick manicure or a polish change?” Lang asked as Guadalupe placed the astringent-soaked cotton pads on her eyebrows and above her upper lip to minimize any redness or swelling.
    “Sure, dear, but not for another hour or so.”
    While waiting in the salon, Lang called Sean to see if he was still in the city, but he was just crossing the Manhattan Bridge at that very moment.
    “Aw, babe, I wish you’d called me ten minutes earlier,” he said, disappointed. “You want me to swing back and get you?”
    “No, don’t do that, babe. It’s not a problem, really. I’m still waiting to get my nails done.”
    “What? You’re still there?” Sean asked, surprised. “Damn, baby, I thought your appointment was only gonna take fifteen, twenty minutes, tops. It’s going on five thirty, and you’re still waiting? Maybe you should look for a new salon if E&I runs that far behind schedule.”
    “No, babe, it’s not even their fault. I got here late.”
    “How’d you do that?” he asked, a little confused. “When I dropped you off you had, like, a whole hour to spare.”
    “Yeah, I know, babe, but I was so into this American Legacy article that I was reading at Starbucks that I lost complete track of time,” she lied.
    “Really?” Sean asked, more surprised than suspicious. “That’s not like you at all. You put the capital P in punctuality. Must have been a damn good article.”
    “Yeah, it was. Oh, she’s ready to do my nails now. I gotta go,” she lied again.
    Lang waited another forty-five minutes for Guadalupe. It was after seven PM when she finally got out of there. A simple eyebrow appointment that should have ended no later than 3:20 became a marathon day of sit-and-wait, thanks to Dante Lawrence. Lang thought about calling her lover before she went home to her husband, but Sean had just called minutes ago to let her know that he was cooking one of her favorite meals—grilled salmon marinated in bourbon on a bed of steamed spinach, drizzled in his special-made honey-sesame soy sauce. And for dessert, spoon-fed fresh strawberries drenched in whipped cream. Yeah, she needed to go straight home. But damnit, it was still annoying her that Dante hadn’t called her back.
    “Hey, Dante, it’s me,” Lang said, leaving him a message. “Look. I just wanted to apologize for spazzing on you