said. "Don't ever read the newspaper."
"I try not to. But the economy has gone under," Eliot said. "They're probably right to focus on spending issues."
"Members of the National Assembly don't deserve to be insulted like that," Marta said. "Especially Otto! He works so hard!"
"Of course he does," Eliot agreed. Privately he knew that Otto spent less time at the office than Marta believed: many of his "meetings" were afterhours drinking parties with all of the other good old boys in the Assembly.
"Besides, there are so many other problems in this city. Have you heard about the riots?"
"I try not to read the newspaper," Eliot said, smiling.
"It's just terrible," Marta said decisively. She pulled in front of the salon and parked illegally on the street.
"One of these days your car will be towed," Eliot said, getting out of the Ferrari. "And you'll have to walk home."
"That's what cabs are for," Marta sniffed. "Anyway, nobody would tow a car with government plates."
Eliot sighed and held the glass door open for Marta. He walked in after her, his head tilted down. Still, one of the customers sitting on the couch did a double take when they saw his scarred face.
"—supposed to be a private appointment," Marta was saying to the receptionist. The receptionist nodded and went over to the customer. Eliot touched Marta's arm.
"There's no need—I don't require so much privacy."
"Nonsense," Marta said. "People stare. I hate it."
Eliot swallowed hard, but before he could respond, the stylist came out of the back.
"Welcome, Dr. Herceg!" he said, bouncing over to Eliot. "Please, come this way."
Eliot let himself be led into the back. Marta and the stylist chattered eagerly about his hair while he waited patiently, nodding in mute agreement whenever Marta suggested a course of action. When he sat in the stylist's chair, however, he flinched at his reflection in the mirror. The scar on the right side of his face broke his visage in two. The white seam ran from his hairline down to where the hairstylist had attached the collar of the cape around his neck. He hadn't looked in a mirror in full light for a long time; to see his face in stark brightness made him inhale sharply. No wonder people stared.
The scissors began to snip away dark locks of his hair, but his eyes were transfixed by the puckered skin of his scar. His lip lifted in a grimace unconsciously as he sat there, forced to look at himself.
"Now don't worry," the stylist said, concerned by Eliot's expression. "When it's done you'll be just fine."
"That's not it," Eliot said, frowning. "I trust you, I just—"
A shout rang out from outside the salon, then another. Eliot turned his head to see what the commotion was about, almost poking his eye into the scissors.
"Hold still," the stylist said.
"What on earth is that?" Marta said. She walked towards the glass windows of the salon, and when she looked outside her hand flew to her mouth.
"Eliot!" she cried.
A woman outside screamed. Eliot tore the hairstylist cape off of his neck and ran toward Marta, who was pulling open the door. When he got there, he saw what had made her cry out.
It was a protest of a few dozen people carrying signs, but two of the men were kicking the side of the Ferrari. Pedestrians quickly ran away from the scene. A second passed before Eliot could make out what the men were yelling.
"Down with government scum!"
"Filthy pigs!"
Marta began to step outside, but Eliot pulled her back just as someone threw a bottle at the door. It shattered on the frame and sprayed glass shards across both of them. Marta shrieked.
"There they are!"
"Criminals! All of you, criminals!"
Eliot swung the door shut and locked the deadbolt just as one of the protesters came up to the salon. The man pounded on the glass with a sign that read "No More Government Spending!"
"Open up, swine!"
The receptionist was already on the phone with the police. "Come quick! Quick! They're angry...they want to kill us!" she
"I try not to. But the economy has gone under," Eliot said. "They're probably right to focus on spending issues."
"Members of the National Assembly don't deserve to be insulted like that," Marta said. "Especially Otto! He works so hard!"
"Of course he does," Eliot agreed. Privately he knew that Otto spent less time at the office than Marta believed: many of his "meetings" were afterhours drinking parties with all of the other good old boys in the Assembly.
"Besides, there are so many other problems in this city. Have you heard about the riots?"
"I try not to read the newspaper," Eliot said, smiling.
"It's just terrible," Marta said decisively. She pulled in front of the salon and parked illegally on the street.
"One of these days your car will be towed," Eliot said, getting out of the Ferrari. "And you'll have to walk home."
"That's what cabs are for," Marta sniffed. "Anyway, nobody would tow a car with government plates."
Eliot sighed and held the glass door open for Marta. He walked in after her, his head tilted down. Still, one of the customers sitting on the couch did a double take when they saw his scarred face.
"—supposed to be a private appointment," Marta was saying to the receptionist. The receptionist nodded and went over to the customer. Eliot touched Marta's arm.
"There's no need—I don't require so much privacy."
"Nonsense," Marta said. "People stare. I hate it."
Eliot swallowed hard, but before he could respond, the stylist came out of the back.
"Welcome, Dr. Herceg!" he said, bouncing over to Eliot. "Please, come this way."
Eliot let himself be led into the back. Marta and the stylist chattered eagerly about his hair while he waited patiently, nodding in mute agreement whenever Marta suggested a course of action. When he sat in the stylist's chair, however, he flinched at his reflection in the mirror. The scar on the right side of his face broke his visage in two. The white seam ran from his hairline down to where the hairstylist had attached the collar of the cape around his neck. He hadn't looked in a mirror in full light for a long time; to see his face in stark brightness made him inhale sharply. No wonder people stared.
The scissors began to snip away dark locks of his hair, but his eyes were transfixed by the puckered skin of his scar. His lip lifted in a grimace unconsciously as he sat there, forced to look at himself.
"Now don't worry," the stylist said, concerned by Eliot's expression. "When it's done you'll be just fine."
"That's not it," Eliot said, frowning. "I trust you, I just—"
A shout rang out from outside the salon, then another. Eliot turned his head to see what the commotion was about, almost poking his eye into the scissors.
"Hold still," the stylist said.
"What on earth is that?" Marta said. She walked towards the glass windows of the salon, and when she looked outside her hand flew to her mouth.
"Eliot!" she cried.
A woman outside screamed. Eliot tore the hairstylist cape off of his neck and ran toward Marta, who was pulling open the door. When he got there, he saw what had made her cry out.
It was a protest of a few dozen people carrying signs, but two of the men were kicking the side of the Ferrari. Pedestrians quickly ran away from the scene. A second passed before Eliot could make out what the men were yelling.
"Down with government scum!"
"Filthy pigs!"
Marta began to step outside, but Eliot pulled her back just as someone threw a bottle at the door. It shattered on the frame and sprayed glass shards across both of them. Marta shrieked.
"There they are!"
"Criminals! All of you, criminals!"
Eliot swung the door shut and locked the deadbolt just as one of the protesters came up to the salon. The man pounded on the glass with a sign that read "No More Government Spending!"
"Open up, swine!"
The receptionist was already on the phone with the police. "Come quick! Quick! They're angry...they want to kill us!" she
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