One by one, the other customers leave and their barbers drift outside to loaf in the sun. Tiny grains of powder dance in the beams that slant to the floor of the shop.
“Do you mind the clippers?”
“No, go ahead.”
Work a minute in silence.
“Say,” you begin, “would you mind my asking you a personal question?”
“It depends on what it is.” She lowers her eyes to her lap.
“Are you married?”
She smiles. “You’ve got a nerve. No, I ain’t.”
“That’s good.”
“Why? It’s none of your business, is it?”