Tuesday.
Mai was in before me. Kettle on, tape gun on its hook, a parcel for Shanghai half-wrapped on the scale.
She waited until the first customer had gone. Then she turned from the shelf of calcium, hands full of bubble wrap.
I used it that night. The mask.
Friday, she meant. After the kids were down, with her mother-in-law's drama still playing in the lounge room. Not the bathroom in the end — the kitchen sink, door pulled to. Fifteen minutes, give or take.
Very comfortable, she said. That was her word. Not amazing. Not glowing. Just comfortable.
Then, with a small laugh: Last night I made my daughter try it too. She pulled a face at the smell. Then asked where the tube was.
I was holding a roll of customs forms. Kept holding it.
So I want two, Mai said. Of the Spa Day mask. And the mist, the one you said you'd get me. Two of those as well.
Before I could open my mouth: And don't you dare give me a discount. I'll pay what's on the website.
Same as my daughter's classmate. Same as the roll-ons. The number on the page, nothing taken off, nothing added on.
Said okay. Said it twice, I think.
Afterwards, in between a lady with a list for her mother in Chengdu and a box of lutein that wouldn't close, I did the sum in my head. Two orders in under two weeks.
First, a seventeen-year-old's friend. Second, the woman who hands me the tape gun.
Had always pictured the next one as a stranger. Someone arriving from far away with a question. It hadn't crossed my mind that it would be the person who'd been standing a metre from me the whole time.
At home, dinner, dishes, my daughter's lamp glowing under her door. Then the laptop at the kitchen table, and a WeChat to Ninuo. Just the facts. Two masks, two mists, Mai.
Her reply came back in under a minute, a voice message, the sound of a station platform behind it.
Good! Order a few more while you're at it. Masks, mists, both. Don't be scared. If they don't move, I'll take them off you.
Kind of her. Truly. Also the kind of kindness that makes you count differently — like being handed a rail before you'd said you were going up the stairs.
Sat there a while with the cursor blinking.
In the end: six tubes of Spa Day mask. Six bottles of NaPCA mist. Which is more than I have ever bought of anything, for anyone.
Then, because Mai will not take a discount and won't hear of a gift, I added something else. Three tubes of AP 24 Whitening toothpaste.
Don't be fooled by the three. One is a present, for her. The other two are for the drawer.
She can hold the line on the price. She can't hold the line on a tube of toothpaste.
Funny, how that works. A discount says I'd like to bend the number. A present says nothing at all — it just changes hands.
The confirmation email arrived while I was rinsing the cups.
Six and six and three.
Hadn't told my daughter yet. She'd ask who the other four were for.
Wasn't sure I had an answer.