I let the door of the Ladies' Room shut behind me with a whoosh of air.
Fuck. Was it just me, or was the atmosphere in the Life Café really claustrophobic, lately?
Sighing, I planted myself in front of the mirror.
My lipstick had rubbed off, and was smudged above my lower lip. My hair fell around my shoulders, limply.
I stuck my hand into my purse and began to rummage for a tube of Purple Passion lipstick.
I swiped the stick over my mouth, rubbed my lips together, and tossed the tube back into the bag.
I raked my long newly manicured fingers through my hair, trying desperately to give it some body.
Shit. I'd have to wash it once I got home.
Wait a moment.
I turned to the side, staring defiantly at my profile. Was it just me, or was my ass bigger than it was yesterday?
Too many of those damn burgers from the Life Café, that's what's doing it.
I looked over my shoulder at the stall behind me, littered with graffiti.
To throw up, or not to throw up?
I took one more glance at my reflection at the mirror.
Nah. Too chancy. Besides, making myself sick on top of the disease I already had wouldn't do me any good at all.
Hmmm. Looking a little flat today, aren't we? Maybe I should stuff . . .
Stop that, I scolded myself. You're fucking beautiful, god dammnit.
Yeah right.
I reached into my purse, feeling around for a Kleenex.
My hand lingered over an old faded photograph.
Gingerly, I held the picture between my manicured thumb and forefinger, being careful not to rip it.
I smiled. It was a picture of a boy I knew a long time ago. Before I got AIDS.
His name was Antonio. I squinted, trying to get a better look at the picture.
He was perched on the top of his dad's car, his hand held above his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He was shirtless, and his chest was puffed out, though he was scrawny.
I smiled and shook my head, in reverie with my memories.
I knew him all too well.
After all, I used to be him.
Suddenly, a knock on the restroom door interrupted my thoughts.
"Ang? You coming or what? Your food's getting called," Collins said, from the other side of the door.
I took one last longing look at the photograph before stuffing it back into my purse.
Then, I adjusted my wig, and walked out of the bathroom, my high heels clacking loudly behind me.
Fuck. Was it just me, or was the atmosphere in the Life Café really claustrophobic, lately?
Sighing, I planted myself in front of the mirror.
My lipstick had rubbed off, and was smudged above my lower lip. My hair fell around my shoulders, limply.
I stuck my hand into my purse and began to rummage for a tube of Purple Passion lipstick.
I swiped the stick over my mouth, rubbed my lips together, and tossed the tube back into the bag.
I raked my long newly manicured fingers through my hair, trying desperately to give it some body.
Shit. I'd have to wash it once I got home.
Wait a moment.
I turned to the side, staring defiantly at my profile. Was it just me, or was my ass bigger than it was yesterday?
Too many of those damn burgers from the Life Café, that's what's doing it.
I looked over my shoulder at the stall behind me, littered with graffiti.
To throw up, or not to throw up?
I took one more glance at my reflection at the mirror.
Nah. Too chancy. Besides, making myself sick on top of the disease I already had wouldn't do me any good at all.
Hmmm. Looking a little flat today, aren't we? Maybe I should stuff . . .
Stop that, I scolded myself. You're fucking beautiful, god dammnit.
Yeah right.
I reached into my purse, feeling around for a Kleenex.
My hand lingered over an old faded photograph.
Gingerly, I held the picture between my manicured thumb and forefinger, being careful not to rip it.
I smiled. It was a picture of a boy I knew a long time ago. Before I got AIDS.
His name was Antonio. I squinted, trying to get a better look at the picture.
He was perched on the top of his dad's car, his hand held above his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He was shirtless, and his chest was puffed out, though he was scrawny.
I smiled and shook my head, in reverie with my memories.
I knew him all too well.
After all, I used to be him.
Suddenly, a knock on the restroom door interrupted my thoughts.
"Ang? You coming or what? Your food's getting called," Collins said, from the other side of the door.
I took one last longing look at the photograph before stuffing it back into my purse.
Then, I adjusted my wig, and walked out of the bathroom, my high heels clacking loudly behind me.