marty

i’m out of lipstick.

like any teenaged girl with any self-respect, i steal it from the drugstore. under the watchful eye of the pharmacist, i edge past the magazine rack, pore over shampoo labels before arriving at the heaven that is drugstore makeup.

they’re out of my regular “Reckless Red” and i’m forced into the pinks, never a good choice for a redhead. redhead, red lipstick, plaid shirts, Vans. that’s my look, my best “put together” look for this shithole town. but there’s no “Reckless Red” and I’m out of my comfort zone. i’m sampling lipstick, pink lines razoring my wrist.

i’m no cutter. Nope.

ditching the pinks I rummage through the theatrical make-up: lime green, purple, grey, white, black. there it is: “Weirdo Black”. it’s perfect for a psycho-girl like me.

i knock a couple rows of mascara and eyeliner onto the linoleum-tiled floor, crouch and slip the black lipstick into my tube sock. clean up the remainder strewn across the aisle like pick-up sticks, return them to their crooked metal hangers.

done and dusted.