Until today, I wasn’t privy to her preference in lipstick.
(The label on the slim gold tube says Helena Rubinstein.)
Until today, I didn’t know about her.
I found her lipstick as I rifled through the contents of a small, elegantly beaded evening bag, wedged carelessly behind a deer-motif needlepoint pillow resting against the left arm of his overstuffed horsehair sofa. The bag wasn’t mine. And neither was the pair of violet-blue silk knickers, wadded up behind the pillow as well.
Sporting Pink. An odd name for red lipstick. Unsporting Pink would have been more fitting. I am a big believer in fair play.
What’s your poison? he likes to ask when I’m over for cocktails. I perch demurely on the edge of the sofa, the deer pillow at my elbow. He begins mixing a dry martini-two olives-even before I answer. It would appear that he has me all figured out.
Of course an incorrect assumption.
He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to be sending her a bouquet of flowers. Aconites, to be precise, with blooms the same violet-blue as her knickers. She’ll be delighted, naturally, burying her face among the glossy green leaves and deeply hued blossoms to inhale their scent-and find the aroma to be utterly heart-stopping.
What’s your poison?
I wonder if he’s ever asked her that.