Lipstick & Lattes

by Tracy Krimmer

  “I don’t want that. My mom has wrinkly skin and I want to avoid it if I can.”

  “Elena, I have the perfect product for you.” I open my drawer and pull out my most expensive eye cream at $120 for .5 fluid ounces. “This is the best I have. Use it every day and before you know it, you’ll shave five or six years off your appearance.”

  She takes the bottle from my hand and starts reading the back. I’m sure I almost have her when she nods her head. She believes me, trusts me. I’m the professional telling her how easy it is to get what she wants. The results are in the bottle. Simple. She needs a push, though.

  “If you buy this today, I’ll toss in a free gift.” I open my drawer again and grab an eyeliner. Free products almost always work. “If you’re redefining your eyes, why not bring them out more with this great color?” The purple shade will go great with her dark eyes.

  “I don’t know. Money is a tad tight right now. My husband is laid off. I was really just out getting fresh air.”

  This part of my job I hate the most. A hundred and twenty dollars is a lot for anyone to spend on eye cream, especially someone who doesn’t have the cash. I’m not forcing her to buy it, though. She makes the final decision. Part of me wants to rip the cream from her hand and tell her to get into her car and stay the hell away from the mall. But then I think of my boss and how she needs me to sell this. If I can sell something today, my boss will be happy.

  “You’ll look so gorgeous with this eyeliner, and the cream will feel so good.”

  She clicks her tongue as she widens her purse. “Fine. I’ll charge it.”

  “Great!” I take her charge card from her and watch as her face twitches with hesitation. Retail is the devil, really. I swipe the card knowing I’ve helped this woman do more than feel good about her skin—I’ve probably forced her further into debt.

  The price we pay for beauty.

  Chapter Two

  Justin Timberlake blasts through the speakers as I make my way through a sweaty sea of dancing bodies. Between the perspiration and doused on cologne, my nose has had about all it can handle. Hannah follows behind me, pulling her shoulders in to avoid contact with too many people. I’m glad she waited for me after work so we could go to the club together.

  My boss didn’t lay into me too much. After I sold the eye cream to Elena, a few more customers came by, and two of them bought product. My sales helped as I thought they would and my boss asked I make a ‘conscious effort’ to arrive on time. So now instead of trying not to bite my nails, I’m adding leave earlier for work on my list, which means getting up earlier. I hate this list already.

  “Mai tai, please,” I yell to the bartender as I wave my money at him. The only thing better than caffeine in the morning is alcohol at night. After the day I’ve had, liquid fun is the perfect way to relax.

  “Sangria.” Hannah squeezes next to me. “I’m keeping it classy.”

  I eye up her skirt which is so short I can almost see her butt cheeks. “Okay.”

  “Oh, like you’re one to talk.”

  I glance down at my dress, black and form-fitting, resting mid-thigh. My neckline dips dramatically and I’m showing off the one bodily asset I do have. My bright red heels sparkle like Dorothy’s. They’re my favorite pair of pumps and make my legs appear much longer than they are. “I’m dressed way less slutty than you.”

  She takes her drink from the bartender. “Hey, I really don’t care. I’m here to have a good time.”

  Fresh off a breakup, Hannah takes her partying with a side of serious. Paul was her college sweetheart, and he broke things off a few months after graduation. He intended to go on with his schooling and get a Master’s Degree of some sort, I don’t even remember in what, and possibly a PhD. He explained to Hannah she wasn’t on his level, whatever the hell that meant. After a few months of devastation, Hannah insisted on picking up the pieces again. She’s sliding her pieces around the board, enjoying being single but being safe. We have fun together. She’s my best friend.

  “My plan is to have a few drinks, dance, and that’s it.” I dream about meeting someone—my Prince Charming, my Jack Dawson, my Lloyd Dobler. I’ll admit it’s probably something I fantasize about a little too much. One of my guilty pleasures is watching romantic movies. Most don’t start in a nightclub, but they all end happily ever after. That’s what I want. “Forget about men tonight. Let’s dance!”

  With our hands in the air waving to the music, we work through a group of people. I don’t recognize the song playing, but I’m getting into it. My dress is sticking to my thighs, and my hair is heavy and wet. I pull my hair back and hold it in a faux pony tail as I increase my pace with the music. Forget my job for a few hours, forget about my boss, and just dance—this is why I’m here.

  We sweat through a few more numbers before a man is dancing next to us with his buddy. They’re cute, I guess. Hannah grinds against the one who looks like a surfer boy with his Justin Bieber haircut. The other one with his Ken hair and black hipster glasses moves closer to me. I try to step back but I’m entangled in the crowd.

  “What’s your name?” The bass pounds between my ears so I can only guess this is what he asks by reading his lips.

  “Whitney.” He shakes his head so I yell my name this time.

  “Bryant.” At first I think he says Bryan but he clenches his teeth together and points to his mouth as he enunciates the “T.”

  My desire to maintain a conversation with this man is minimal. The only thing I want to do tonight is dance. At least he has rhythm. He’s worth dancing with through this song. I’m running out of breath and need a break soon.

  I pull my hair back again. Bryant considers this an invitation, slipping his arm behind me and pulling me close. Though everyone is squished together on the dance floor, I don’t want anyone touching me so intimately. He doesn’t take the hint when I lift his hand away and he moves closer again. There’s nowhere to go at this point. He repeats his gesture. I’m not having it. I elbow him in the stomach before I turn to find my way past the crowd. This guy’s a stranger, and from what I can tell so far, a douche. He can keep his hands off me.

  I think I found a pathway, but as I try to escape, he grabs a hold of my arm and swings me around. I stumble over my heels and once I regain my balance, I rip my arm away from his hold.

  He tightens his lips and his eyes intensify, the furrow in his brow enough to send a shiver through my spine. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Me?” Isn’t it him who manhandled me? Weren’t it his hands I removed from my body? “You don’t know me. Keep your hands off me.”

  A crowd gathers around us, Hannah and Surfer Boy standing next to each other watching this unfold. Hannah’s mouth is stuck in the open position and her dance partner is shouting Bryant’s name in an effort to get him to back down. The gawkers block my exit. What am I supposed to say? Should I shove past these people? Bryant will back off. What’s he going to do in front of all these people?

  “You dress like that and don’t expect anything to happen?” He waves his hand up and down my outfit.

  There’s nothing wrong with how I’m dressed, and I’m tired of men using that as some excuse to come onto women. “I can dress however the hell I want to dress. I came here to dance.” That’s it. Nothing more. Can’t a girl go out and have a good time without being hit on? Since when is it wrong to dress how I’m comfortable and feel sexy? Feeling sexy isn’t an automatic invitation for sex.

  “Well, I came here to get laid. Aren’t you going to give it up? You were dancing all up on me like you wanted me.”

  My heart hammers in my chest, and my fingers are trembling. How dare he say something like that? Is he being serious? Or is he drunk? The reason he’s acting like this doesn’t even matter. Before I can stop myself, I raise my hand up in the air and slap him across the face, his fake-ass glasses flying onto the ground.

  Part of the crowd jumps in shock while the other cheers. The music
keeps playing in the background, the DJ completely oblivious to what’s going on. Meanwhile, I shake my hand trying to rid of the stinging sensation in my palm. Did I hit someone? He may have deserved it, but I’ve never done such a thing in my life. Walk away. Always walk away.

  “You little bitch!” Bryant raises his hand at me, but before I can react someone swoops in and punches him in the face.

  “Get the hell out of here!” My knight in shining armor yells. I can’t see his face. He has Bryant in a bear hug trying to hold him back from me, and it’s so dark in here I can only see the back of him. Do I know this guy? “Go!” He turns his head, but Bryant is trying to break away so the man keeps tossing his head back and forth. I want to stick around to see how this turns out. Bryant should be kicked out of Vogue for doing what he did. But then again, he could call the cops on me. I assaulted him. Me. Not the other way around.

  “Did you hear me? Get out of here!” The man is yelling and Bryant’s friend is now part of the fight, trying to pull my rescuer off Bryant. He’s right. I need to leave. I’m a fool to stay. But I can’t move.

  Hannah breaks me from my trance and grabs my hand, yanking me toward the door. “Let’s go. Now!” I fumble to find my keys, but my hands are trembling, and I can’t grip them. They fall out of my hands and onto the ground.

  “Are you even okay to drive?” Hannah panics.

  “I’ve only had one drink. I’m fine.” I snatch up my keys and hit the button to unlock the doors as soon as we’re outside. We waste no time getting into the car, buckling in, and leaving the scene as fast as we can.

  I guess this day did get worse.

  ••••••••

  Hannah and I make it back to her place in record time. I park my car outside of her apartment and we take a moment to gather ourselves before we race upstairs.

  “That escalated fast.” I shut the car off and lay my head back on the headrest. The blood is pumping through my veins, and my nerves require a few minutes to settle down. I’m still shaking.

  “No kidding. How that guy thought you would sleep with him after one dance is beyond me.”

  “What in the world is wrong with men these days?” My eyes are locked on the streetlamp as I try to recall the last decent man I met. “Gentleman don’t exist anymore, do they?” My dad, my late grandpa, those may have been the last of them. That’s why I love my romantic comedies so much. They provide hope I’ve otherwise lost.

  “That guy that decked that asshole was pretty sweet.”

  “Yeah. He was.” He didn’t have to do that. Most people these days accept what they see at face value. They don’t like to involve themselves in anything. It would have been just as easy for him to take out his cell phone and record a video of what happened. Professional paparazzi, the state of the youth today.

  “Do you think the cops came?”

  Shoot. The police. I should have stayed. The club owner may have called the police, and I should make a statement. But I also could have been fined, or worse, arrested. “I don’t know. Should we go back?”

  “Go back? Are you crazy?”

  “Maybe. I don’t want this creep doing the same thing to another girl.”

  Hannah sighs. “Me either, but we can’t go back. Not tonight. What you did, you defended yourself, Whit. I saw what he did to you.”

  My eyes well up, and when the first tear falls, I’m sure my mascara is ruined and black lines grace my face. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “What?” She puts her hand on my back and rubs in a circular motion. “Of course you didn’t. That guy is everything that is wrong with the world. Now the one that clocked him—we need more men like that. Don’t blame yourself.”

  I sniffle as the tears cloud my eyesight and the light from the streetlamp becomes a blur. Damned the men that make women feel ashamed for being themselves. “You’re right.”

  “I’m always right.”

  Hannah’s declaration makes me smile. I’m in the mood for something fun, and something we can enjoy together, no crazy boys allowed. “Got any popcorn? I could go for a big bowl of popcorn and a chick flick.”

  “How about Dirty Dancing?”

  Through a tear-soaked face, I roll my eyes as we burst into giggles. Leave it to Hannah to take a bad situation and make a joke of it. I’ll give it to the girl—she can make me smile. Everyone should have a friend like her. “You’re on.”

  Once the popcorn is popped and we’re nestled on the couch, I’m finally reaching a state of relaxation. Hannah offers me wine but I’ll stick to a diet soda. I’m calm now and don’t want my adrenaline reaching uncontrollable levels again. Although Patrick Swayze in tight pants may get my heart pumping.

  After the final dancing scene we decide to kick it up to the nineties and turn on Never Been Kissed. I love this movie. Michael Vartan is so sweet and compassionate and Drew Barrymore is adorable. My mom introduced me to all these movies, especially Drew, and I blame her for my obsession.

  “Oh, when is someone going to stand on a baseball field waiting for me?” I toss a kernel into my mouth and let out a sigh.

  “Seriously, Whitney?” She smacks me with the pillow. “First of all, she’s waiting for him. He didn’t make the grand gesture! And second, what is it with you and these fantasies?”

  “What fantasies?”

  “You want to be Drew Barrymore in every movie. Lindsey in Fever Pitch, Lucy in 50 First Dates, Julia in The Wedding Singer.”

  “Well I don’t want to be Casey in Scream.”

  “But maybe Casey in Mad Love.”

  She’s right. I’m a sucker for Drew Barrymore movies. She plays super adorable characters, she’s independent, and the men she falls for are not only hot, but romantic. Why can’t I have a fairy tale? Is it so wrong to dream about a man sweeping me off my feet in the most cliche way possible? I’m allowed to dream about reaching my goal as a theatrical makeup artist and falling in love, aren’t I? There’s nothing wrong in wanting to be in love.

  An hour and a half later, Hannah’s passed on the couch, and I’m crying happy tears that Josie Gellar was finally kissed good and hard. I click out of Netflix and flip through the regular channels. I stop on an infomercial that tries to convince me I should wrap my body in plastic wrap to lose weight. No thank you. I’ll stick with the gym, should I ever decide to make fitness a priority.

  Even after our small movie marathon, thoughts of what happened at Vogue clutter my mind. The images keep appearing, and I visualize every moment as though I’m watching it unfold in front of me. Did I give the wrong signals? Is there any chance I stuck my booty out too far and bumped into his hips a little too much? Did I show too much cleavage? I’m scrutinizing every detail as though this somehow was my fault.

  I’m being ridiculous because even if I did send some sort of signal that didn’t give him any right to do what he did. I’ll be forever grateful to the stranger who jumped in and saved the day. I wish there was some way to get in contact with him so I can thank him. I don’t want to go back to the club—at least not yet—so how do I find him? I never even got a good look at his face. He could come to me for a consultation at the store and I’d have no idea. Short of taking out an ad, there must be some way to find him.

  Wait a minute. Why can’t I take out an ad? I’ve seen things on Facebook where people capture moments and others share the post until they find the those involved. There are sites dedicated to missing animals. Schools have lost and founds. There must be something to find people you’ve shared a fleeting moment with. I thought Craigslist had an area for that.

  I think I may be crazy, but I snatch my phone off the table and download an app for Craigslist. Let’s see what I can find.

  I search through the categories until I find one that sounds pretty accurate. Missed Connections. In order to create my own listing, I need an account. Easy. I set one up and enter my ad under the Milwaukee area:

  You rescued me that night when the music blasted and someone made unwelcomed
advances. I’m eternally grateful and want to meet you.

  What else? Many of the other people have options to email or contact through the app. This seems the obvious way to do it. I don’t want to receive fifty or sixty emails from men claiming to be this person. I’m Whitney Fenske and I think outside of the box. I’ve never been normal. Why start now?

  If you’re my Knight in Shining Armor, meet me at the Redbox inside Walmart on SS on May 3rd at noon. You’ll know me by the pink flower in my hair, though I hope you recognize me either way.

  I click post and then immediately search for an undo button. This is stupid. Besides, what if some sort of psycho shows up? Maybe I shouldn’t write about the flower. Of course then how will I know who it is? Of course no one could even show up. I can lie low, scope out the people who come. I mean, really, how is this any different than meeting someone out at a party, or in a restaurant, or at school? We’re all strangers once.

  I shut off my phone. Out of sight out of mind, right? Besides, I don’t have to work until late afternoon tomorrow, and I don’t want a text waking me up at seven in the morning. I grab a blanket from the storage ottoman and curl up, thankful Hannah’s couch is comfortable and even more thankful she’s letting me crash here. My mind is reeling from the night’s events, and the call I put out to find my Prince, but I have no problem falling asleep.

  Chapter Three

  “Whatcha got for me today?” I stroll into the double doors of the Humane Society ready to take on whatever they have in store for me. “More puppy holding, I hope.” I can do without cleaning up the dog poop and changing the kitty litter, but I’ll do it if need be. That’s my purpose for being here.