“Your nails look terrible,” Li Ming said flatly, examining her colleague’s hands across the break room table. Wang Mei withdrew her fingers defensively, tucking them under her sleeves.

“I know, I know. The new nail salon near my apartment screwed them up completely.” She sighed. “Cost me 300 yuan too.”

“That’s what you get for being cheap. My place charges 600, but at least they don’t make you look like you’ve been gardening with your teeth.”

Wang Mei stared at her mutilated cuticles. The supposedly trendy gradient design looked more like a failed tie-dye experiment. She’d wanted something nice for her wedding anniversary dinner tonight.

“Maybe I can fix it myself,” she muttered.

“With your coordination? You’ll end up in the ER.” Li Ming’s trademark brutal honesty was both her charm and curse. “Look, I’ll text you my nail artist’s number. She can probably squeeze you in today.”

Six hours later, Wang Mei sat in the pristine salon, wincing as the nail technician removed the botched polish. Her phone buzzed - a message from her husband: “Working late again. Rain check on dinner?”

She typed back one-handed: “It’s our anniversary.”

“Oh right. Sorry! Next week?”

The nail technician tutted sympathetically. “Men, right? My ex was the same. Always working, never remembered important dates. That’s why he’s an ex.”

Wang Mei forced a smile. “Ten years of marriage. You’d think he’d remember.”

“Ten years? Girl, you need more than new nails. You need a new man.”

They shared a laugh, but Wang Mei’s chest felt hollow. The technician continued chattering as she applied the base coat. “You know what they say - when a woman changes her hair or nails, she’s about to change her life.”

“Is that so?” Wang Mei watched as perfect crimson layers appeared on her nails. Bold. Dramatic. Nothing like her usual pale pink.

Her phone buzzed again: “Booked us that French place you like for next Friday!”

She stared at the message, then at her blood-red nails. Ten years of forgotten anniversaries, canceled dates, and empty promises reflected in their glossy surface.

“All done!” The technician beamed. “Beautiful, right?”

“Perfect,” Wang Mei said quietly. “Like fresh wounds.”

She paid, adding a generous tip, and stepped into the evening drizzle. Her new nails gleamed under the streetlights as she typed out one final message: “Don’t bother with Friday. Or any other day.”

Then she blocked his number, turned off her phone, and walked into the neon-lit city, leaving ten years of memories dissolving in the rain behind her.

At home, her husband sat in his office, telephone pressed to his ear, orchestrating another major deal. The message notification flashed briefly on his screen, but he was too busy to check it. By the time he did, hours later, it was already too late - much like everything else in his life.

The next morning, Li Ming found Wang Mei’s desk empty except for a small potted cactus and a note: “You were right about cheap things. They never last.”