Forty-Five Minutes

The muffled boom of the music reverated through the thick tiled walls of the bathroom as I pushed her against them. I wrap my hands around her, one to roam around her body and another to keep me from toppling over. I kiss her, and she kisses me. There are no words needed. I can smell the alcohol on her breath—or is that me? She runs a hand down my leg, her fingers catch on a run in my stockings and suddenly I’m flooded with the reminder of my appearance and I pull away from her. “Fuck. I need to get ready.” 

“What? What’s wrong? What are you talking about?” She questions, following me out of the stall. 

Looking into the mirror, I wipe away a bit of the smudged black mascara under my eye. I wet my hands and try to flatten the tangled mess of a nest I call my hair. “I need to get ready,” I repeat. I reach inside my dress and pull out my lipstick that is resting between my shoulder and my bra strap. I try to apply it but the world spins and I can’t seem to keep my feet still.

“Get ready for what?” She places herself next to me by the sink, leaning into my peripheral. I looked at her for a moment before I felt something swell in me. It’s low and sour and now bubbling up my throat. I run to the stalls behind us and hurl into the uncleaned porcelain thrones. She follows me and stands between the stall doors, watching me puke out everything I had swallowed in the last 12 hours. 

“My brothers weddin’,” I say, letting out that old North Coralina accent that only appears when I’m not paying attention. 

“When is it? Tomorrow?” She asks. I plop myself down onto the ground. Leaning against a graffitied bathroom wall I grab her wrist and look at her watch. “About forty-five minutes from now.” Before I could even look at her, another sour, almost painful gag crawled up the walls of my body like a creeping tendril. 

“What the hell are you doing in a club looking like this before a wedding?”

“What the hell do you think I’m doing?”

“Avoiding it, I’m guessing.”

I slowly turn, looking up at her through the mascara bleeding into my eyes. “Yeah something like that,” I say. She reaches out a hand, and for a moment, I don’t take it. She steps closer to me, gesturing again, this time more aggressively. I place my hand into hers and she brings me to my feet. Immediately she pushes the falling strap of my dress back up on my shoulder. 

“Open your mouth,” she demands. I stare at her for a moment before complying. She sticks a mint into my mouth, I suck on it for a second, puzzled. She takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom mirror where she opens a small case full of makeup brushes and lipstick and leans it against the sink. 

“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping away from her. 

“I’m going to fix your makeup, dummy.” She closes the distance I just made and begins wiping away layers of my old cracking foundation with a cotton pad. 

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to a wedding.”

“But…why?” I ask again, this time feeling awkward. 

“Why this, why that. Why don’t you just let me?” I blink a few times before I ultimately just let her. 

We spend a few moments in silence as her fingers roam around my face, wiping away the muddy makeup pooling around my eyes, the smudged lipstick, and stray hairs sticking to my sweat-sheened forehead. “Were you really going to a wedding like this?” She asks.

“Drunk?”

“Drunk and…” She paused, probably trying to think of a way to tell me I look and smell like I don’t belong anywhere near a wedding. “...and unprepared,” she finally says. I glance at myself in the mirror, red-rimmed eyes, a dress that noticeably doesn’t fit right, the faint discoloration from sleepless nights. 

“I’m going to the wedding because I have to,” I utter, turning my head from the mirror. 

She raises an eyebrow, “Is it the wedding, or who’s at the wedding?”

“You’re asking me as if you already know,” I laugh but it comes out as tense. 

She shrugs. “Is it bridezilla?’ 

I force a smile, “No, she’s actually—” 

“Close your eyes,” she quickly murmurs. I do and she starts applying eyeshadow with a brush. 

“She’s great,” I finished saying. “She’s got it all. Decent job, veterinarian actually, graduated with a 4.0, great attitude…”I stop myself as if saying the words will scratch the walls of my throat. “And she’s beautiful.” She taps what feels like a concealer underneath my eyes. “She’s the opposite of me. Sometimes I get real embarrassed standing next to her.” 

She rummages through her purse again, this time taking out a small compact of powder. She dabs a brush into it, tapping the excess off. I watch as the dust falls to the ground. 

“I’ve known her since I was a kid. I met her at church—we met her at church. My family, I mean. Over the years they all fell in love with her.” I lower my head instinctively. “And so did I.”

She doesn’t respond for a moment. When she does, all she says is, “I see.” 

She rolls a mascara wand along my eyelashes wiping away some of her mistakes with her finger. She rakes her hands through my hair, gathering it all to put it up with bobby pins. She moves behind me, her hands grazing against the nape of my neck sending a buzz down my spine.

“They wanted her and my brother to get married for longer than I can remember. They wanted me to marry this other boy from our church but—”

“You don’t want to marry boys,” she says. 

“I don’t want to marry boys.”

“And they think you do.”

I feel as if I suddenly can't speak—every word bubbles up in my throat. I’ve always been like this. There’s so much I want to say that I end up saying nothing. 

“She loves my brother,” I say between the pats of her cold hands against my cheek, I assume applying a blush. “She loves him,” I say again, this time to myself. “She doesn’t even know about the damn tight leash she’s kept me on all these years. Nobody knows. All the things my family doesn’t see, I don't know what they’d do if they’d become aware of it all.” My chest sinks because of the sudden weight pressing down on me. Yet, oddly enough, I feel softer—like my blood has become a little thinner. I had never said any of these words allowed, it’s all been embedded within me for years—trapped behind a barricade of my teeth. 

I can feel her fingers fiddle with my dress, pinching the fabric. “Don’t move, I’ll poke you,” she says, a bit muffled. 

“Alright,” I whisper in response. After a moment I can feel my loose dress pull tighter around my waist. I touch my back to feel a few safety pins pinning the fabric tight. 

“All finished by the way,” she runs a hand down my back, patting me for a moment. 

I look into the mirror and my jaw drops at the person in my reflection. I’m taken aback, not only because of how different I look compared to mere moments ago but because of how put together I am. My skin doesn’t look heavy, my eyes aren’t sunken, and the color to my face isn’t smeared black mascara and pink lipstick, it’s natural, light, and lively. My hair is tied up in a loose yet gathered bun, with a few strands resting down my cheeks to frame my face. My dress, hugging my waist instead of shooting straight down my body, looks almost like I had changed outfits completely. 

In too much awe, I stand nearly speechless looking into the mirror. I don’t—can’t say anything at this moment. I look nice but the reality of the wedding feels like it’s sinking in. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears—or is that the music outside? I think I might puke. Or maybe I’m going to cry? I feel like everything within me is overflowing, spilling out with nowhere to go. I open my mouth, only to close it again. I move my hands but I have nowhere to put them. My feet want to run but I have nothing to run to. Every time I look around, it all feels muddy and foggy. Like I’m stuck in this gray haze-—

“I don’t kiss random girls at clubs,” she abruptly says, making me suddenly jump. I look at her through the mirror and stare with half amusement and half in awe. “I really don't!” She laughs. “You want to know why I kissed you?”

I shrug. 

“I kissed you because you…you’re beautiful and wild. You make me want to be the girl dancing with holes in her stockings—drawing people in like their bugs and I’m the porch light. To me, you’re perfect.”

Our eyes bounce around for a moment, avoiding the thick yet tender awkwardness settling down between us. When we lock eyes, she steps closer. “You don’t have time,” she says in a quick breath like she is forcing the words out of her. 

“I know,” I whisper. 

“Go.” She gestures to the door with her head. She’s smiling but it’s weak. I head to the door, shaken, wobbly, and struck with anxiety and heartache. I grasp the handle but I stop and I can’t tell why. “Do you…Do you come here a lot?” I turn around and say. 

“No, I don’t,” she says softly. 

“Oh.” We watch each other, letting silence sink in. 

“I’ll see you,” she says, faint but loud enough for me to hear. 

“Thank you,” I mouth trying to imply the multitude of layers hidden behind those two words without having to sayanything beyond that. She nods softly yet enough for me to understand her.

I step through what feels like an unknown threshold as I cross the doorframe. I’ll be late, but I’ll show up. With my aching heart and ripped stockings. I’ll show it off like a trophy. Wear it on my sleeve like an accessory. I can’t make out everything ahead but one day, I’ll see it.