But Captain Cry won’t stop shaking her head,
mascara streaking her jaw.
“I thought—I don’t know.
“He was bein’ nice. Like, normal nice.”
She snorts back a sob, a hand over her mouth.
Zit Girl turns away from the mirror,
focusing on Captain Cry now.
“That’s why they left.” Then her voice drops down to a whisper for Cry's sake, “‘This one smells like fish,'he said. Just like that. Loud enough for God to hear it."
Captain Cry makes that sound when your body can’t tell if it wants to laugh, cry, or cave in on itself.
“It’s hot in there,” she says.
“I’m sweating.
“Not like I didn’t shower before. I?—”
She cuts herself off, embarrassed.
I wash my hands, dry them,
then step between them
as if I’ve been summoned.
“May I?”
The one with the zit snaps her brows together.
I nod at her forehead. She nods back.
Warm water. Paper towel, folded just right.
I press it to her skin.
“Hold this. Sixty seconds. Don’t move.”
She nods, breathing like she’s in labor.
I turn to the crying one.
“And you,” I say. “Your kiwi's a self-cleaning badass bitch and smarter than half the guys in this club, aight?”
She stares, nodding with wide eyes.
So I keep going?—
“Listen, sometimes... she smells different. Nine times outta ten, that's pH, not hygiene. Could be BV, hormones, stress, or too much tequila. Don’t know. Don’t know you. Doesn’t matter. It ain't shame, you got me?"
I take the compress from Zit Girl and angle her face toward me. I press her forehead gentle enough to open the zit. Pus releases in one clean breath.
I wipe. Dab. Cold water compress now.
