1: a drink served before a meal to stimulate the appetite.
2: a teaser just to get the juices flowing.
You gonna hop off the Bastian train?
Or are you gonna see just how far it can take you?
I ponder that question as I take the literal train all the way home.Stay or go? On or off?
By the time Friday night rolls around, I still don’t have an answer.
What Idohave is about thirty-nine outfit changes strewn across my bed, an equal number of makeup tutorials paused on my laptop, and a growing sense of panic that is doing nothing to make any of this girlhood shit any easier.
I also have the memory of Bastian’s teasing lilt in my head.Eight o’clock. Wear something nice.
I check my phone. It’s 6:41.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
I hop in the shower. If I’m going to have a mental breakdown about whatever this is with Bastian, I might as well smell good while doing it. The hot water feels amazing against my tense shoulders, and for a few blissful minutes, I let myself turn into a houseplant under the flow.
Eventually, though, duty calls. I do a stellar job shaving my left leg—honestly, this baby belongs in a museum—and I tackle my right leg with similar gusto.
But I lose focus as I get into the awkward gargoyle crouch required to properly trim the lady parts. Before I know it, I nick myself right in the crease where my thigh meets my butt.
“Ow! Fuck!”
Blood swells in the water and swirls pink down the drain. I press my thumb and hiss as the hot water amplifies the sting.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit! Stupid dull razor. Stupid leg. Stupid butt. This is all just so unbelievably stupid.”
I stumble and bumble my way out of the shower, making an additional mess as I try to dab up the blood with toilet paper that sticks to my wet skin. I eventually manage to slap a Band-Aid over the cut.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair hangs in dark, sopping ringlets around my face. I look like a drowned raccoon.
“I should cancel,” I mumble to my reflection. “‘Hey, sorry, Bastian, but I just came down with a terrible case of whoopingcough. Or malaria. No, plague. Actually, my face exploded. Yeah, it’s gruesome. No, I can’t show you. Yes, it’s real.’”
I sigh and hang up the imaginary phone. I can’t cancel. More importantly, I don’twantto cancel.
I’ve been buzzing with anticipation all week long. It’s the first countdown since my diagnosis that hasn’t felt depressing. I woke up this morning grinning from ear to ear, and as the hours at work ticked away and 8 P.M. drew closer and closer, that grin found room to keep spreading even wider.
I have no clue what Bastian has planned. I just know that every single Range Rover that’s passed me in the street this week has nearly induced an orgasm.
Bastian sexually Pavlov’d me with luxury SUVs. I may never forgive him. Lord only knows what he intends to ruin next.
I towel-dry my hair and work some leave-in conditioner through the tangles, scrunching the natural waves until they form loose, copper-colored spirals that frame my face.
For makeup, I keep it simple: mascara, a swipe of blush, and a berry-tinted lip stain that makes my mouth look like I’ve been eating cherries. It’s not quite as suggestive as the girl in the YouTube tutorial, but I’m doing the best I can here.
The outfit takes longer. I try on almost every shirt I own before settling on a chocolate brown cropped cardigan with long sleeves. It has a cute little bow tie in front and performs the miraculous feat of making my boobs look like they actually exist.
With that, I pair a flowing white maxi skirt that’s giving boho chic. I’m gonna freeze my nips off, but that’s just the price of beauty these days, I suppose.
I throw an ankle-length, camel hair coat over the whole thing, fuzzy socks, and black combat boots.
When all the feminine rituals of witchcraft have been performed, I check myself in the mirror one last time.
I’m walking a perilous path between the kingdom of Not Caring At All and the dangerous wilderness of Caring Way Too Much. It’s a risky gambit, but it’s the only one I’ve got.
