The scent of white musk and a hint of vanilla filled the stuffy air of Saskia’s back room.
I stood before a cracked mirror bolted to the wall, adjusting the collar of an oversized flannel shirt—a loan from Saskia’s "treasure chest" of a closet, since my work clothes were far too formal for tonight’s casual vibe.
My hand reached for a small spray bottle filled with bulk linen spray.
Spritz, spritz.
“Cough! Whoa, take it easy, girl!”
Saskia, who had been lounging on a folding mattress while munching on cassava chips, bolted upright. She waved a hand in front of her nose, her face twisted in a playful grimace.
“Is that perfume or pesticide? You’re going to be a walking scent bomb. Are you teaching a second-grader or trying to charm her dad?”
I glared at her through the reflection, thou
