He smirks and take a sip of coffee. “Sounds like you’re doing excellent.”
The caffeine hits my tongue and I moan. “You make a mean cup of coffee.”
“Thank you. I take my java seriously. I have a French press back there.”
I giggle. Why does that not surprise me? I like his blend of modern and old-fashioned.
“What? A man has to have his hobbies, too.”
“I didn’t say word.” I hide my grin behind my mug. We finish our coffee, and he takes the dirty dishes to the back. I hear the water run. And he cleans up after himself, too. Why is this man not married? I didn’t see a ring, but that doesn’t mean he’s single. The thought dampens my mood. Just as I take a seat in his chair and unwind my head scarf, he returns with a black cape he wraps around my neck.
“Are we shaving it again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s growing back in,” he observes.
“I know. Does it look normal to you?”
“Except for the patches, yes.”
“The doctors believe I’m a good candidate for injections.”
“How do they work?” he asks.
“They inject my scalp with a needle that holds a certain compound that can stimulate hair growth.”
“You sound hesitant.”
I sigh. “I am. I don’t like the thought of the discomfort, or the ups and downs that’ll go along with waiting to see if the treatments take.”
“So don’t do it.” He makes it sound so easy.
“You don’t think it’s like giving up prematurely?” I peer at him in the mirror.
Our gazes connect, and he rests his warm hands on my shoulders. “I think handling this on you own terms is important. I know this will sound ridiculous coming from me given my profession, but hair isn’t everything.”
His words make me smile.
“Thank you, I think I needed to hear that.” He gives my shoulders a gentle squeeze and begins to gather his equipment. “How’ve you been?” I ask, feeling like our conversation has been mostly about me.
“Good, keeping busy. My sister just graduated from nursing school, so we had a huge party at my mom’s house to celebrate. It’s always a bit chaotic, but a good time. I have three brothers and two sisters, and most of them are married. It’s a lot of people in one place.”
“Umm, yes. I imagine it would be.”
He chuckles.
“You sound close.” I can hear the affection for them in his voice.
“We are. My dad died when I was nineteen, and I moved back in to help Mom raise the others. I don’t regret my decisions, but it’s the reason why I don’t want children. I’ve already gone through the motions of raising them. Now it’s my time to do everything I had to put off.”
His words spark excitement inside of me. He understands in a way most of my friends who want kids don’t. “Join the club. I love the little buggers, but they’re not for me. I want to do and see too much. Perhaps I’m selfish in that sense. I’m all for being a kick ass aunt, though.”
He chuckles. “No. I totally feel you. I can’t tell you how many relationships ended because I don’t want kids of my own. They always think they can change my mind.” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with knowing what you want and what you don’t.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His words have conviction to them. I sense an untold story behind his emotion-filled words.
“It’s okay. I’ve been doing the solo thing for a while, and I’m happy with it. What do you want to do with your time?”