“Alcohol dehydrates you,” I continue, holding the paper towel against a forehead while talking to the other. “Dehydration throws your balance off—less water, less natural acid, more bacteria partyin' where they shouldn't. You want balance back? Go to the bar. Lemon. Water.”
I flick my eyes over at her.
She’s stopped crying.
“You wearing silk panties?”
“Yeah…”
“Take those off. Tonight.
“Never again.
“They trap heat.
“Your pussy can’t breathe.
“Go commando if you can in the meantime.
“And from now on—cotton only.
“No excuses.”
I lift the paper towel off the forehead.
An angry pink dot stares back at me.
I unzip my purse and dig for my foundation tube, then dab one dot on my finger.
Tap, tap,soft on the pink spot.
I lift her chin and admire my work.
“Now you’re flawless.”
“Thank you,” Zit Girl whispers.
I turn back to the mirror.
I wash my hands again.
“Oh. And tomorrow? Greek yogurt, no sugar—good bacteria, good balance. One probiotic on the side. You'll smell like clouds and peace by Thursday. Trust me.”
// 10:26 PM //
I stand tall near the booth.
Not leaning against it.
Because I don’t depend on shit.
I scan the layout.
Bar to the left,
crowd and stage to the right.
Exits marked.
