i need eyeliner, black.
like any teenage girl with an ounce of self-respect, i steal it from the drugstore. under the watchful eye of the pharmacist, Mr. Greenwood, i edge past the magazine rack, read the labels of shampoos before arriving at the heaven that is drugstore makeup.
apply lipstick, red, redder, reddest. pretend I’m stuck inside a french fashion magazine instead of this shithole town.
knock a couple rows of mascara and eyeliner onto the linoleum tiled floor, crouch down and slip one of each into my tube sock. clear up the remainder strewn across the aisle like pick-up sticks. return them to their little hangers.
done and dusted.