I should probably get something to eat. She won’t be here until eight so dinner alone again. On my way into the kitchen, I spy the stacks of money still perched on the coffee table. Right next to it, the remnants of last night’s dinner. I must’ve forgotten to throw it away. I toss the plastic containers in the trash, feeling a slight pang of remorse for not recycling. But I console myself with excuses, like always. My apartment doesn’t have a designated area for recycling. Plus, I would have to wash it first and then take it somewhere to be properly disposed of. And the only thing that trumped me wanting to help the environment, was my laziness.
I guess now is as good a time as any to come up with a hiding spot for the money. I’m not really sure who I’m hiding it from but it probably shouldn’t stay out on the coffee table. I could hide it under my mattress. How cliche. I could buy one of those fireproof safes. Too much work. I settle for an old shoe box that I toss onto the top shelf of my closet. That is, after I put a few hundred dollars into my wallet. Now to figure out dinner. Last night was Chinese so tonight should be pizza, from Pagliacci’s of course.
Just as I pull out my phone to call in my order, a notification pings on my screen. To my surprise, Kevin is texting me, wondering what I’m doing tonight. This, my friends, is one of the downsides to texting. Back in my day, people would call to ask you out on a date or, even better, ask in person. But this guy that I just met, who works at a PHONE STORE, is texting me instead of calling. I begin to type, not sure what to say. Text or not, it’s been a really long time since someone asked me out. I might be a little rusty.
“Hey, Harper. It’s Kevin. I was wondering what you’re doing tonight. If you’re free, I’d like to take you out to dinner.”
“Hey, Kevin. I was actually just about to order some pizza but dinner with you sounds way better. Pick me up at five?”
“K. I’ll see you then.”
The “k” seems extremely informal and a little passive aggressive. But if I’m going to take control of my life, I have to think about what the new Harper would do, not the old one. The old me never would’ve texted him back. But the new me is open to almost anything and being asked out over text certainly falls under “anything”.
I click the little circle at the bottom of the screen and stare at my home page. A cluster of newly-downloaded apps, just waiting to be organized. My inner OCD is telling me to fix it but I see the time instead. 4:12. I have less than an hour to get ready. Lucky for me, I’m very low-maintenance. Maybe the new me should kick it up a notch, though.
I head into my room and slide open my closet doors. It’s rather small but my even-smaller collection of clothes fits perfectly. Kevin didn’t say where he was taking me but I really only have two or three outfits that are acceptable for a date. A blue and pink floral sundress that I pair with white wedges. A red blouse and black skirt that I pair with black stilettos. And a black cocktail dress that I pair with silver pumps. I lay them all out neatly on my bed, placing the shoes underneath each outfit. While I think it over, I head to the master bathroom, and only bathroom, to take a shower. I can’t remember the last time I showered. That sort of goes along with my depression.
By the time I get out of the shower, it’s already 4:26. I quickly towel off and figure out what to do with my hair. I’m thinking some sort of updo but my knowledge of hairstyles is slim. I blow dry it and brush it back into a low bun. I secure it with hair ties and bobby pins. Sleek and sophisticated. Hopefully it sends the right message.
I head back into the bedroom and take one last look at the three outfits. I reluctantly settle on the blouse and skirt. Not too formal but not too casual. Hopefully I’ll be ready for anything Kevin throws at me. I slip into the outfit, which is a little tighter than I remember. I’ve definitely put on some weight since the last time I went on a date. Nevertheless, Kevin asked me out, so he obviously doesn’t care.
Just as with hairstyles, I’ve never known much about makeup, nor have I cared to learn. I’ve always believed that more is less and that makeup is for accentuating your natural beauty, not hiding it. My thoughts shift to Rowan, who tends to slather on makeup. I just wish that she could see herself from my perspective. Maybe then she wouldn’t try to hide under all that foundation and eyeliner. Oh, and the eyelashes. I hate the fake eyelashes. But maybe then she wouldn’t dye her hair or visit the nail salon every week to apply expensive acrylics. Maybe then she could embrace her natural beauty.
I start by covering my acne with concealer. I don’t have much but all the wine is probably why I have any at all. Next is my foundation. It’s from Maybelline and I bought it at CVS like ten years ago. I know what you’re thinking. It’s definitely expired by now. But who actually pays attention to that? That shit’s expensive and I seldom use it. I reach into my makeup bag and grab the liquid eyeliner. It takes me at least ten minutes to get something close to a cat eye and by the time I’m finished, my eyes feel red and inflamed. I take a step back and look in the mirror, mildly satisfied with my handiwork. For someone that never does makeup, it’s not half back.
I top the look off with a reddish-pink lipstick. Just as I finish applying it, I hear a knock at the door. I yell in the direction of the living room that I’ll just be another moment and I slip into my black stilettos. I head into the kitchen, searching for my clutch. I find it sitting on the kitchen table but the color is all wrong. Olive green with black and red? No way. I rummage through my closet for the black purse that I know is there. Hiding in the back of my closet, I see it hanging on a small hook, dangling by its thin strap. I quickly shove a few hundred dollar bills inside it, along with my phone that was tossed onto my bed, and my keys which are in a bowl by the door.
Waiting patiently on my front porch is Kevin and, boy, is he underdressed compared to me. He is wearing what I believe to be the same pants that he was wearing when we met. Brown cargo pants. His shirt is a burgundy polo with short sleeves and those three awkward buttons at the top. I think to myself: I’m going out with the AT&T guy. For some reason this is his defining characteristic. Maybe it’s because that’s the only thing I know about him. Without much time to talk, there was no way for me to know if I was truly into him. I guess that’s what tonight is about, though. About seeing if there’s a spark or a connection or whatever you wanna call it. All I know is that anyone that can take my mind off Rowan, is someone that I want to spend time with. The new Harper, the one that is taking control of her life, needs to move on. I’ve spent 15 years pining after her and I’m not even sure if she knows it.
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