I see women looking at me, wondering if I’m that Maggie, 
the one from the song. If they ask, I tell them. Otherwise, 

I just do their nails—acrylics, gel fills, whatever they want. 
Pedicures, I always massage an extra minute. Don’t want 

complaints. I mind my business and follow protocol. 
It’s okay, let everyone think I’m a tart, that I seduced that boy. 

If the ages were reversed—well, you know, this is the world. 
Met him down at the Rolling O, playing pool. He told me 

he was thirty-two, selling tools, passing through. None of it true. 
The song, that’s not all of it. We hiked and cooked and read poetry. 

Wrote some, too. Oh my, that boy could write. I brought him here, 
the salon, one night and he wrote a poem using all the names—

Lipstick Shout, Mango Mood, Red Hots. He should get—what 
do you call them things? Pulitzer? Nobel? I swear, I didn’t know 

he was a kid. Sent him packing once I did, back to school 
where he belonged. Crushed my Big Apple Red heart. 

Bio: Victoria Melekian