Member-only story
Her Painted Lips
Did we even given ourselves a chance?
It’s another evening where I can’t tell what’s irritated you this time. Here I thought we were going out for a nice dinner — your favorite place, the little bistro on Fifth — but you’ve been jittery all night as if your nerves are so tightly wound they’re a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. But who’ll deal with the repercussions? I’m already hoping we’ll go our separate ways before one of us says something we’ll regret.
I already have enough regrets about you and me.
But then something shifts. You smile more after our entrees arrive, and your red lips grow richer as if the wine is staining them a few shades deeper. You finally laugh at some of my jokes, and I feel as if I’m winning a game of some kind. Finally, it seems, the score is in my favor.
The reprieve doesn’t last. By the time the bill arrives, your look sours when we both reach for the black rectangular folder. But you don’t back down with a surly gaze cast my way. No, your hand lingers next to mine as if our hands have become opponents in a match of some kind.
“I insist,” I say, smiling for good measure.
But that does nothing to melt your features. “I’m making my own money now too,” you say. “It’s only fair that I pay my own share.”
