I stomped until chalky pink and white powder dusted across my bathroom tiles. A week later, I fell in love. It happened the way that my old model friends said it would, completely out of nowhere. The agency allowed me some time off, since I practically killed on the McQueen runway. That blank stare, those lifeless eyes were just sublime for the fall show, one reporter wrote. Even still, it happened to be the Chloé Spring/Summer show where my eyes weren’t welcome, and all my ‘friends’ backstage called me lanky and creepy. One model reached into my toiletry bag after the show to grab makeup remover wipes, and accidentally cut her fingers on the sharp squares of stained glass that I carried in it. They all thought I tricked her. My allotted leave was five months, yet at this point almost a year had passed. I went to ceramics class every Sunday morning, and in the evenings I spoke with my mother.
“Hi, Mama,” I said.
“Hey doll,” she responded, making good on our usual seven o’clock phone call, “how’re ya? You okay?”
“I’m good, I swear, I’m just fine,” I muttered.
“Are you wearing your black lipstick?” she chuckled.
I wore black lipstick every night before bed since I was diagnosed, and my mom would always either stifle a laugh or shoot up an eyebrow at the sight of it, so I restricted our talks to phone calls, no video. My bare face sickened me. After the Chloé show my appearance had become mucky and distorted, and it caused a deep confusion within me that made the mirror fog up. From facials, lymphatic drainage massages, dermaplaning, to my final days of beauty care, which included microneedling, buccal fat removal, cheek filler, I fought to see myself again. The neck lift was the final straw. It occurred to me that the trunk holding up the beautiful blossom that once was my face, could be the root problem. A gruesome image grew from the mirror and into my thoughts–or rather, thoughts that weren’t mine but a raspy, feminine vocality that screeched. So I allowed her to fully embody me, like she wanted, and applied her to my lips with a black lipstick. I could speak as her, eat as her, and see us together instead of the broken puzzle that became my pampered face. I thought I controlled her.
On the day that I met Clay, I stopped wearing the lipstick. He was too pristine, too fragile– and truthfully, I didn’t want him to see me like that. I could only kiss him with baby pink lipstick. I even felt guilty that I bought the shade from the drugstore, as if he would know that I’d dare to kiss him with a six dollar lipstick. He was absolutely darling in his form. We always went to this little diner across town. He was warmest to me when he was all filled up with creamy coffee. I knew that our intimacy was officially bonded when we fed the coffee to each other straight from the pot.
On our way to the café, I saw one of the girls I had modeled with. For once, my nerves were a product of anticipation rather than anxiety. I was thrilled to show her my new boyfriend.
“No way, it’s you. No way! I haven’t seen you in forever. Are you doing better, angel?”
“I’m great. Thanks, Lila. This is my boyfriend,” I said, presenting him with pride.
She stared at him for a minute with a heightened sense of discernment. She shot me another pitiful smile, tilting her empty head to conceal her jealousy. I clutched Clay confidently, and told Lila to have a really nice day. I think I even threw in a ‘good luck, honey,’ which almost knocked her off those ugly clogs. My heart pounded out of my chest.
At home, I made Clay comfortable on the couch, afraid that he’d see me panic. I ensured he was turned away from my old, stained-glass vase that barely held onto its wet mold and dead flowers, a vase that I used to adore but that had since sustained a shattered top half. I didn’t want him to get nervous and see the votive candles surrounding it in a perfect circle. I went to the bathroom, and doused my lips in the black lipstick, watching it stain my teeth in the mirror. I could hear him call out for me in fear. I wiped off my lips quickly with my hands, telling him I used a charcoal toothpaste. His beauty shined brightly at me, and I told him that I was ready for the next step.
“We should go to the shower,” I said.
I undressed, and at the sight of his porcelain skin and tall stature, I felt a sense of ease wash over me. The curve of his figure fit perfectly into my palm. I turned around to put on the baby pink lipstick, and got into the steaming shower. I kissed him as we washed each other with my rose scented body wash. I closed my eyes and went up to the shower head, rinsing my hair before we stepped out. I reached my hand out of the shower to grab a towel, soap stinging my eyes, when I heard a piercing sound so alarming that I slipped and fell to the edge of the tub.
“Clay?” I said.
I looked down. My heart dropped.
“Clay?”
The pink-stained ceramic cup had cracked, meshing perfectly with the pastel powder of my stomped pills.