Lipstick

EARL.

Fire Engine Red. It had to be. I picked up the mug and inspected it after she'd got up to go to the John and I can say, without a doubt, that was Fire Engine Red on her lips. I reckon she thought that I was leering at her, the way that I was staring. But there was something so innately feminine about her. When she walked past my stool I caught a whif of her in the breeze she made and it felt like flowers, I swear to fucking God. And I'm sure that was perfume or something. Liz Claiborne, I bet. But my eyes, Lord, I think they rolled right up into the back of my head and I suddenly forgot where I was. Sitting in some diner on the side of the road fantasizing about a lady I don't even know.

I paid my bill and went outside for a smoke. I left a ton of bacon on the plate. Just wasn't hungry. I dunno.

And you see, Doctor, I really did just want a smoke. But when she came outside, she stopped to touch up her make-up. She did it so effortlessly. No mirror. She knew the curves of her lips like the back of her hands and put it on like a pro. And when she dropped the tube and it rolled over under my boot, I suppose most men woulda let her bend down and they woulda enjoyed the view. But me, I just looked her right in the eye and said,

"I love this shade."

I bent down and picked it up.

"Can I keep it?"

She smiled at me this sorta crooked, half-smile like she didn't know what to make of me and nodded, backing away and I said something stupid.

"You smell real pretty, miss."

And she started to run and my feet, I guess, they were just glued down to the ground. Like I stepped on some gum or tobacco or tar. You know.

I didn't mean to scare her. I wanted to tell her truth. I wanted to say it out loud but you never know how they'll take it. Six foot tall, a scraggly beard I haven't shaved in weeks and I drive a tractor fucking trailer, you know what I mean? It's not everyday you meet a butch piece of white trash who secretly wants to be a lady.