Chapter 28
The weeklong shipping times of online shopping make for delayed gratification. I need more. A surge. A rush. The swipe of plastic. The shine of a red sale sticker. That feeling of walking into a mall with nothing, coming out with the promise of a new me.
I pull into the parking structure and park crookedly in a spot near the elevator.
I don’t bother straightening out. It’s not worth the trouble.
Nothing is. Nothing that doesn’t have to do with him.
He’s all I can think about since our Sleepy Dog meetup two days ago.
Him. Him. Only him. The thoughts are cyclical.
Torturous and wonderful. My legs are shaky.
My hands are numb. I’m starving and nauseous at the same time, my stomach churning with a giddy, queasy combination of thrill—When’s he gonna say something?
What’s he gonna say?—and dread—Is he gonna say anything at all?
I’ll probably end up returning half this shit.
It’s embarrassing every time I have to make a return.
Every time I have to confront the gaping disparity between what I thought could be and what actually is.
I can always see in the employees’ eyes that they know it too.
Oh, that top didn’t work out? is the nice way of saying You fucking piece of shit, you’re a fucking retard if you thought that blouse was gonna make the difference in your shitty little life.
I get in line at Auntie Anne’s, shopping bags digging marks into my arms. My body craves something to distract it, some form of escape, and what better option than junk food packed with preservatives and chemically engineered to be addicting? Junk food, the true American hero.
As I stand in line watching the gloved employees twist dough, time is a slow, stretched blob. An obstacle. A thing I only want to get rid of, to fill, to kill, so I can get to the next moment that counts, the one where I hear from him.
My phone pings. I swipe it open before the ping’s halfway through. It’s Randy Fucking Julep, checking in because it’s “been a while,” aka putting out the feeler if I’d still be down to fuck. I guess Tiny Tits from winter formal doesn’t put out. I don’t respond. The customer in front of me pays.
I wolf down the pretzel and suck down the lemonade on my drive home.
I chuck Mom’s sticky note in the trash and dump my shopping bags onto my bed.
I try on the top. It doesn’t look as cute in the honesty of my bathroom mirror.
This is a mirror that’s seen me a million times before.
That knows exactly who I am. That knows I’m not an off-the-shoulder-top girl.
I try on the shoes. Both pairs look stupid.
I smear honey oil into my hair. It looks greasy.
I wash my face for a clean canvas to put more shit onto.
I squirt two pumps of foundation onto my wrist and smack it onto my cheeks with a sponge. It’s orange and patchy.
I chuck the foundation at my bathroom mirror. It cracks and the bottle shatters, frosted glassy bits and beigy-orange liquid splattering everywhere. The goo drips down the walls. My phone buzzes.
Mr. Korgy: I’m about to head out from poker night at my friend’s place. Will you be alone in an hour?
I look at myself in the mirror. And suddenly the top looks okay.