FICTION | PROMPT
Kill, Misplaced, Lipstick
Your pipe dream afterlife awaits you
I’ve followed many makeup routines, fitting them to seasons and available duration, but the final activity remains unbroken. It’s time to stain my lips.
Discarding the peachier hues, my eyes thicken on Dreamer, a carmine red. Juxtaposing it with my bland formal outfit, it’s the tinge of boldness I need.
Hoping my face remains impassive, I tug on closed heels and lock my door.
The pep talk I give myself on the way works, thrusting my nerves into a box deep within my mind, to review at night. Until I receive a recognizing wave.
“You sure, blood doesn’t make you squeamish?”
I bite my tongue, holding a comeback about women not having the luxury, and resume the interview with a serene mask. Hot founders are the worst.
Those who can’t monetize writing about writing, join tech startups offering services to the ones who can. Accepting defeat is smoother with paychecks.
They offload tasks from the lowest tier, which isn’t a problem. The kitchen has a coffee machine and generous new joiners with embers in their souls. Bypassing loyalists with influential agendas, I get started on client therapy.
