The hum of the blow dryer always drowned out my own thoughts, which was a blessing sometimes. Especially when those thoughts were about bills, and how far behind I was. Or the quiet desperation that gnawed at me, day in and day out, trying to make ends meet at this small, independent salon. I prided myself on my work, but talent doesn’t pay for groceries or the mortgage.
She was one of our regulars, a vision of effortless elegance. Always perfectly coiffed, a scent of expensive perfume that lingered long after she’d left. She spoke softly, but there was an air about her that commanded attention. And her jewelry… oh, her jewelry. It was exquisite. I often caught myself staring, a quiet longing stirring deep inside me.
One afternoon, after her cut and color, she seemed flustered, searching frantically through her handbag. “My earrings,” she murmured, a genuine panic in her voice. “I can’t find them anywhere. They were here, I swear.” We all helped her look – under chairs, by the wash basins, even swept the floor again. Nothing. She left, visibly upset, promising to call if she found them at home, but clearly convinced they were lost in the salon.
Later that evening, long after everyone else had gone, I was doing a final sweep, tidying up the capes and towels. Tucked into the folds of a freshly laundered towel, glinting innocently, were her earrings. Two perfect emeralds, surrounded by diamonds, glittering even in the dim salon light. They must have cost more than I made in a year. My heart pounded. This was it. A way out. For a split second, a dark whisper told me to keep them. No one would ever know. I could sell them, pay off everything, start fresh. The temptation was a physical ache in my chest. But then, no. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t a thief. I was honest.
The next morning, as soon as she walked in for her emergency follow-up, her face still etched with worry, I approached her. I held them out, my hand trembling slightly. “You left these,” I said, trying to sound casual, trying to hide the tumult of my inner battle. She looked at them, her eyes wide, then up at me. A strange, almost knowing smile played on her lips. It wasn’t relief, not exactly. It was something else.
“Keep them,” she said. Just like that. My jaw almost dropped. “A thank you for your honesty, for finding them. They… they hold too many memories for me anyway.” Her voice was soft, almost a sigh. Too many memories? What kind of memories? I stammered, tried to refuse, but she insisted. “Please. Consider it a gift. They’d look beautiful on you.” And before I could argue further, she just smiled, thanked me again, and walked back to her stylist.
I stood there, emeralds and diamonds weighing heavy in my palm. A gift. From her. It felt surreal. I took them home, put them on. They felt foreign, luxurious, almost too much for my simple life. But I wore them sometimes. At first, guiltily, then with a strange pride. They connected me to her, to a world I only glimpsed.
She became more than just a client. She started confiding in me. Little snippets of her life, tales of travel, of elegant dinners, of a husband who was always busy. I’d listen, fascinated, living a little through her stories. She was kind, truly. She’d bring me small gifts – a fancy coffee, a designer hand cream. I started to admire her, even envy her life. I felt a bond, a special connection, forged over those earrings. She trusts me.
My own husband worked long hours. He was a good man, steady, but distant sometimes. He was always “at work,” or “with clients.” I missed him, sometimes desperately, but I told myself it was the grind. Life was hard. We had to focus on surviving.
Then, things started to shift. I noticed her arriving in a sleek black sedan sometimes, not the car she usually drove. And occasionally, I’d catch a glimpse of the person picking her up. A man. His back to me. A familiar posture, a certain set to his shoulders. No, it’s just a coincidence. People look similar. My stomach would churn, but I’d push it down.
One evening, I was the last to leave again. The salon was quiet, the city lights reflecting faintly in the darkened windows. As I locked the door, I saw it. The black sedan. Parked just down the street, waiting. And then I saw him. Walking out of her car, opening the door for her, his hand lingering on her arm. He turned slightly, just for a second, catching the light from a streetlamp.
MY HUSBAND.
The world went silent. The city sounds, the distant traffic, the frantic beating of my own heart – everything vanished. The earrings felt suddenly heavy on my ears. A weight of lead, pulling me down, suffocating me. She didn’t give them to me out of generosity. She didn’t give them to me because they held too many bad memories for her. She gave them to me because they were from him.
A secret, silent exchange. A payment. A guilt offering. A way to bind me to her, unknowing, while she ripped my life apart. And I, the fool, had worn them, flaunted them, a trophy of her… their… betrayal.
MY GOD. Every compliment I’d ever received on them was a knife in my back. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw not a beautiful gift, but a glittering reminder of how utterly blind I had been. She didn’t just lose her earrings. She lost them for me. And in doing so, I lost everything.
