I watched deep blue lighten to gray, felt that extra stillness, extra
quiet of a weekend morning in a strictly-business downtown. Standing by
the hotel window, I stared down the long, straight, empty streets of
this place I didn't know, at all the hopes and happiness, despair and
desperation sheltering under the endless neat rows of roofs, beneath
the lines of unfamiliar trees. I wondered, what would it be like to
waken in that house, there, over by the park; to see the first rays of
the sun glint of the Capitol from one of those apartments there. Who
would be sleeping there beside me? How strong, how slim the hand that,
still asleep, reached out for mine? When had I wanted to see pale, long
fingers, nails gleaming with color? When had I wondered how blunter,
harder fingers relax in rest, how might it feel to trace a finger on
roughness of a squarer chin?

No others' hand here. Neat stacks of papers by the laptop. And three
brown bags on the armchair.

It took a while to stretch my own hand out to the armchair, though I
knew all along I'd have to. Want to. It took a while to reach inside,
to lift the neatly folded dress, to slowly lay it on the bedspread. To
reach inside and feel thin, slick cloth slide between my fingers, take
one bit out, another. They are such tiny things, crumpled they can be
hidden in a hand. And yet a color, a band of lace, a tiny bow made of a
ribbon have all this meaning, all this power, despite their delicacy,
to change you. Change me.

And so I changed. Hot bath. Panties slowly pulled up still-smooth legs.
Put on a bra, manage the hooks and eyes first time. The cups are
padded, I see my shape emerge. Almost, not quite. Strong cloth again
grips waist. Slip hugs me tight there, brushes thighs. Pantyhose. The
dress. I stare into the mirror. See me.

A girl, a guy in a dress. Blink: girl. Blink: guy. Blink:

The makeup kit he had bought for me was on my dresser. It wasn't one of
those all-in-one things you see in discount stores -- he had picked all
the pieces just for me: A set of makeup brushes, for eyes, cheeks,
lips. Foundation and blush that matched my complexion. How did he know?
Several lipsticks with matching polish. Tiny bottles, tubes; my fingers
clumsy as I picked them up. Would I? Could I?

He'd whispered as he'd given me my face last night: foundation. A soft
sponge smoothes it on cheeks and forehead, nose and chin. When you do
that, when you are there, when I am there, with smooth and even skin,
"now", he had said "you're ready."

Eyes first, right? Stiff narrow brush leaves a dark line on my lids,
"all the way to the end," he'd whispered. Not very smooth, my eyelids
fluttered against the touch of the brush. Something bright above? Under
the arch of my brow, was it enough? I took the tweezers: Focus, grab,
pull. Six, eight, ten times on each side. I must be crazy, everyone
will see. I like the arch. The color below: lurid. Try again.

No bright colors this time. The same dark line on my lid, I'm smoother
now. A new applicator sponge, its rounded virgin head completely white.
I touch it to the dark shadow, it comes away -- dark brown glistens on
its end. Gentle touch under lower lashes, slowly sweep: Yes, that's
its. My eyes now hers. Hers? Mine. Smudge a little with the sponge tip.
Smokey. My eyes...

Dip now into the next lightest pot, back and forth over eye lid,
starting outside the middle edge and keeping it all within the line of
the crease, then extending it slightly, that's it, "to open up your
eyes," he had said. Now the other. Aaack, they're not even, a little
more there, now here. Now there's too much.

Third time's a charm, they say. Studying my eyes now, I see it's so.
Smoky, smoky brown.

Cheeks get the biggest brush. It is sable, soft as a cloud must be on
the back of my hand, on my cheeks. I touch to the reddish powder and
then bring it up to my face as I look back, intent, into the mirror.
"Smile," he had said. I smiled. "And then start on the apple of your
cheek." Do I have one? Yes, there. See, there: brush back along the
cheek bone. He had done it with a flair, the impresario: I lingered,
the brush caressing my face, softer than eyelashes, the softest thing
I've ever felt. Then the other.

Oh.

No, not even. Clean it off with a tissue and start again. Again. And
there: the faintest flush, as if I'd just come in from the cold.

Lips, another brush. The bottom lip is easy to outline, the smooth,
slightly greasy tip following my lip line just so. But the top? Two
spikes, clown's spikes: Tissue, wipe. Again. Lips red as a wound: maybe
a darker shade? I paint the lines once more, pick up the tube, its
pointed top extended like a tongue to touch my lips. Deep breath. I
pursed my lips and touched.

Maybe the most feminine thing to do: To redden lips so that they look
engorged with warmth, desire. Excited, like the other lips women have,
red and moist and waiting for something to enter them. Waiting for a
man to enter them.

I step back, still holding that shiny black tube with its deep red tip.

Blink: a girl. Blink: a girl. Blink: a girl smiling. Blink: a girl
running the tip of her tongue over the edge of her lips, feeling the
waxiness.

One more thing. Where is it? Ahh. Twist top, pinky dips into to the
glossy pot, dabs gently on the bottom lip.

Blink: what does this wet gleam say. Blink. Blink:

The strident ringing of the telephone. I've got to answer, can't get
free of all this. A second ring. A third. A quick glance at the door:
Yes, locked. O.K., O.K., I'll be O.K. I wonder if I sound short of
breath as I answer.

"Hello," he says. "You said you are an early riser, hope I didn't wake
you."
I try for a calm I do not feel. What I feel is the lipstick on my lips
and my heart, beating as if I've run a mile. Two. Ten.
"I had this thought," he says. "It's Saturday, you're stuck in town. I
thought ... Look, how about coffee. I'm right downstairs."

"Ummm, Uuhhh, S... sure," I say. "Sure. I'll be right down. Give me a
sec'. I haven't done my hair yet." There's a too long pause. Done my
hair?

"Just give a sec, okay?," I almost stutter, before he can let me know
he's heard.

We both knew what a sec was, but it's different for me now. How long's
a sec'? As long as I need.

Blink: Back-comb for volume, he had said. Part, over one eye. Pull back
on the other side.

Blink: a girl. Blink, a girl, gazing as she clips an earring on. Blink:
a lovely girl. I curtsey to her in the mirror. Curtsey to me.

It is more than a little scary, stepping outside your room, turning to
lock the door, hoping you are the earliest to rise. More than a little
scary, walking down the hallway to the elevators, a hem tickling the
back of your knees. The wait is long, the ride down longer. How wide an
ocean must be crossed before he's there to help fend off a world that
might object.

But he is there, right there, when I step out. A bland and watchful
look blossoms into a smile; a hand held out, tips of fingers lightly
held. Elbow cocked, lightly held. We walk out to the empty, sunny
street. Of course my heart is racing. Of course it's hard to breath.

The smallest sight, the faintest smell, the molecules of the sunlit air
themselves vibrate. Still the same round, white metal table on the
sidewalk. The too-sweet coffee. A curlicue of iron against my spine.
Palm trees. Peace.

But the news we read this morning is from that strangest place of all.
Ourselves.

We sip and read in silence. And when the time is right, when the coffee
has been savored and only the dregs remain, when the news is understood
or, rather, when we feel it is, he smiles.

"I had a thought," he says. "A nice day, I thought, maybe, a drive out
in the countryside. A walk, maybe. I packed a little something -- well,
kind of a picnic. Unless you have ... "

I smile. Lay my hand on his, just for an instant.

"That would be nice," I say. "Am I O.K. like this?"

"You're perfect." He smiles, I blush.

Actually, I wasn't. But still, the little lie can be quite nice. I
guess I ought to know.