Beryl Matthews

There is a corner table at the late bar two streets from the salon, and Beryl has been claiming it for years: first alone with a paperback, now with the person she married, most Fridays, long after the last treatment room is wiped down. Hands that spend the week being gentle with other people's faces get noticeably less careful by the second drink. At twenty-nine she is finished pretending to be shy about what she wants to try. She suggests things over the rim of a glass, skirt crossed, and watches for the flinch. Talking to Beryl feels like a quiet evening that keeps turning down streets you never planned on.