Author
Sacha Black posted the writing prompt
The Red Lipstick on her website a while ago. Just reading it set my girly brain whirling. It didn't take long before it settled on something completely different than
Sacha's eerily brilliant short story. So, here's to laughter, drama, and a bold red lip!
* * *
The boots
zipped over my skinny jeans with a zzzzt and a whiff of leather. The boots were only slightly unsuitable for winter weather. It was a small
price to pay for great legs.
Once last look
in the mirror. Eyeliner in place. Another fluff to my curls. One more spritz of
hairspray. (Okay, five more.) My 'do hadn't reached auburn helmet proportions yet,
though it would stand up to a stiff wind. Or the seizure-like moves that passed
for dancing.
I drew the cap off the lipstick. My fashion guru friend had sported a
red lip for over a year now. But this tube looked more brazenly scarlet than I
remembered. Scarlet the Harlot, wriggled through my mind, a throwback to too
many nights of Clue. I ignored the rhyme and daubed red onto my lips.
Coat on.
Ridiculously expensive handbag at my side. Keys in hand. One more bracing
breath. If I blew my friends off again, they'd never forgive me. And I'd be one
step closer to a deep and lasting relationship with Netflix.
The white bag slouching
against the wall stopped me in my tracks. Thirty seconds, I told myself, that's all it would take. Thirty seconds and I'd be in the car speeding toward a night of schmancy drinks, dancing, and, the girls had assured me, super cute boys. I looped a finger through the plastic handles, careful to touch as little of the bag as possible. Eau de garbage wasn't my preferred scent.
Ten seconds.
The efficient click-clack of my boots on the walk. Twenty seconds. I considered how to
pop up the lid on the dumpster with the least amount of physical contact.
At twenty-five
seconds, my boots skidded on a patch of ice. The flailing elbows and thrashing
feet resembled nothing Kristy Yamaguchi had ever done. With a plop, my
skinny-jeans encased bottom hit the ice and the garbage bag flew into the air.
So much for sticking the landing.
The plump bag
hovered in midair, then plunged toward the ground. I lunged for
it, skittering across the ice. It landed in my lap and I hugged it to my
chest. A newspaper crinkled and the aroma of rotten banana puffed into the air.
I executed a
butt scoot off the ice, still clutching the bag to my chest. Once I was upright, I hitched my handbag back up to my elbow, and
slipped a palm into the red handles of the trash bag.
I made it
exactly one step before riiiip. And crunch, sploosh, crackle, the bag
disgorged its contents. With a sigh, I bent to clean up the mess. Then I heard
it, a sound far worse than the telltale rip of a treacherous trashbag. A manly
chuckle.
No, no, no. I squeezed my eyes shut, wasting all my
wishes at once. Another
chuckle. I forced my eyes open and peered at the source. The Attractive Male
Neighbor.
“Sorry,”
he muttered, seeing my face and trying to hide amusement on his own. It didn't
work. Those stupid brown eyes actually twinkled. If only the ground would open
up and swallow me and my trash heap whole.
“It's Becca,
right?” I nodded. “Let me help you with that.”
“Oh no,” the
words tumbled out of my mouth like refuse out of a torn garbage bag, “It's all
my fault. I'm such a klutz, really. I couldn't allow you—”
“A gentlemen doesn't
leave a lady in distress,” he insisted. “Especially in a pile of trash. What
would my mother say?”
Man, he was
cute. And I smelled like old cheese and dead bananas.
“By the way,”
he said, as he helped me to clear up the mess, “amazing display back there. Do
you skate professionally or are you keeping your amateur status so you can
compete?”
I'd have
punched him in the arm, but my fist was full of crumbled weekly fliers and
something sticky. Instead, I gave my tongue free reign. “Actually, I'm going on tour with Disney on Ice. I'm Goofy.”
“Sweet,” he
said with a grin. “I'm going to need front row seats for that. Hook me up?”
I rolled my
eyes, pitching the last banana peel into the dumpster along with an empty
pudding cup. “I'm pretty sure you just caught the dress rehearsal.”
He chuckled
again, probably recalling my pinwheeling arms, my butt scoot, or the garbage
exploding like confetti over me. I tried not to think about which part he found most amusing.
“Well, thank
you,” I said, rubbing at a sticky smudge on my knee.
“It's the least
I could do.”
I turned away,
fishing my phone out of my handbag and bracing myself for a barrage of tongue-lashing texts. Sorry, girls. Can't make it, I tapped out. Showering and getting dolled up again was too much of a hassle. Netflix, here I
come.
“And hey,
Becca?”
“Yeah?” I
turned back.
A smirk spread
over his stupidly handsome face. “Nice lipstick.”
* * *
What do you think? Leave me a comment below. And if you'd like to read more shorts, try:
Enjoy! And thanks for dropping by!
