He leaves, and we wrap up for the day. Joe asks if I want to grab a drink, but I’m tired, so I tell him we’ll do it another time and hurry through the dark parking lot to my van.

* * *

At home, I put on my oldest, rattiest T-shirt and a pair of faded gym shorts. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and pull out the elastic from the top of my head. My hair falls down over my shoulders, and I paw through it. There are definitely more grays than there were last time I really looked, whenever that was.

A box of dark brown hair color sits on the edge of the tub, and I eye it suspiciously. When I was young, my mother and her friends used to dye their hair every six weeks like clockwork. They’d sit in the kitchen on a Saturday afternoon with coffee and cigarettes, shoo us kids outside, and perform the ritual. They’d sit like statues, heads glistening with stinky goo.

I want to think I’m not that vain, but maybe I am. When my mom was my age, she looked old. By then, she’d let the grays win and cut off her hair, wearing it in a neat, curled cap like all the other old ladies she knew. Like you had no choice. The calendar said you were old, so fall in line.

I’ve kept my hair long, still enjoy wearing makeup, but I’ve been distracted lately and have let myself go a little. My exercise bike sits in the corner, covered with clothes like an extension of my closet. I usually use it three or four times a week and lift hand weights besides to stay slim and toned. But I’ve slacked off lately. I pick up the box, peruse the directions. I can probably pedal while the dye is doing its thing on my head.

* * *

My doorbell rings. Shit. I’ve got ten minutes left before it’s time to rinse. The bell rings again, and I jump off my bike, sweat running down my chest, soaking my sports bra.

I look through the peephole. “What d’you want, Collin?” I ask through the door.

“Reet? Open the door. I’ve got dinner.”

“Leave it on the mat. I’ll get it in a minute.”

“Why? Do you have a man in there?”

“No.”

“It’s eggplant parm.”

I flip the lock. “Okay, fine. Come in.”

He gives me a sideways glance as he walks past me. “Why didn’t you call my stylist? I gave you his card. Those box colors are really harsh, Rita.”

I draw a deep breath. “This was quicker.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “Have you talked to Leo? He’s been visiting his mother quite a bit lately.”

“No. I was just getting tired of looking at myself, Collin.” My phone timer goes off. “I gotta get in the shower.”