It was the mole beneath the left nostril that clued her in. The little brown spot with two dark hairs springing from its center was the catalyst to her frightening discovery. Evelyn had seen this face before-not as it was, but as it had been in thirty-something separate instances. Her hands froze above it, the recognizable nose, eyebrows, chin glistening under a thin layer of lemongrass salve.
“Have I met you before?” Evelyn asked, her voice flickery as the flames of the lavender tea candles lining her studio window. The man’s face did not change, but remained calm, relaxed. Had she not possessed the eyes of one who spends days pouring over the pores and wrinkles and fine lines of faces, she wouldn’t have noticed the corners of his mouth (or rather those of her Thursday morning client’s mouth) twitch at this query.
The man breathed in deeply through Mrs. Quinn’s nostrils and exhaled a response. “In a way, yes.” He paused, “Evelyn, I am not here merely for a facial; I have come to negotiate.”
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