Lipstick Answers

The room is dim as the scene flickers to life. The sparse furnishings, a couch, a coffee table, are doubled by their shadows on the nicotine-stained white walls. He moves about anxiously. A drab sage green sofa comes into focus. Cue the lights. The multi-colored flashbulbs sparkle against his raven hair like the yellow kitchen light sparkles against a brand new knife blade just as your abusive husband comes stomping up behind you. The narrow door in the corner slides open, letting in enough sunlight to momentarily ruin the effect. Her red vinyl peep-toe heels ring against the tile as she saunters in, cinematic, black bare-shouldered dress swishing, forcing a smile shaded with lipstick that matches her shoes perfectly.
“Well, hello there,” he greets her. “And who are we today, Miss Bettie Paige?”
“Ha, no,” she dismisses, picking up the low & skinny ruffled hemline of her dress. “Can we get on with this?”
“And why the hurry? It’s only the end of the world, dear.”
“Ha,” she scoffs again.
“Please, do sit down.”
She lights gingerly upon the sofa, crossing her ankles & folding her legs. The thigh-high slit in her dress parts just enough to reveal an alluring degree of porcelain skin. She places the papers on the time-worn table with a mild crash.
“Here it is,” she states, looking up from the papers & shifting her eyes to give him a quick once-over. “Couldn’t you have found something better to wear?”
He peruses his garments, faded jeans, plain black t-shirt, nice new denim jacket. A spark shines in his midnight eyes.
“Playing off your attraction, huh? It’s ok, I won’t tell”
“Ha.” She’s getting good mileage out of that syllable.
“Can I get you anything before we start?”
“No.”
Clickety-hiss, the film begins to roll, their presence etching into the celluloid in seventies home movie sepia tone. He steps through the kitchen door. She crosses her arms with a sigh & looks bored. Her sapphire eyes stare unwavering into the lens as she presses her lips together with impatience. But it does nicely refresh her lipstick. He sits on the other end of the couch & they face each other like morning talk show anchors. Then a lot of silence. They’ll have to try harder than this if they want an academy award. He starts to speak after several empty frames have sped by.
“You know you’re not much less than perfection.” That spark is in his eyes again.
“You know you’re not much less than caustic,” she replies. “Is there any reason for this? Or are you wasting time AND film?”
As if stricken by a sudden inspiration, he rises quickly from the sofa, crosses the room, takes an old rotary telephone out of the closet. He dials carefully, casting his eyes to the tops of their sockets as he struggles to remember a number. He looks as if his life hinges on that number.
“Hello,” he says. “Yes, hello. I am calling to inquire if your services are available today. They are? You can deliver on short notice, right?”
A pondering look crosses her face as she listens intently to the conversation.
“Ok, good,” he continues. “Yes, I’ll have the big value bucket please, extra crispy. And can I get some biscuits?”
She sighs with agitation & leans heavily into the creased cushions.
“May I leave now?” she inquires.
“No, wait a little bit.”
Click. Empty scene. Empty scene. Empty scene. Click again. The room flickers back into focus. He sits alone, on the floor, with the papers she brought strewn about.
He flips through the pages, petting them as if they were a basket of puppies. He pulls a glossy photograph from the middle of the stack. He takes a pair of scissors, cuts out one third of the photo & places it in his jacket pocket, tossing the rest to the floor. The clickety-hiss keeps going. He stares into the lens.
“Damn, the tape is rolling.”