I saw him see me.
“Hello, ma’am? Miss? Hi, can I give you a free sample?”
**** ****
“Uh.”
Cue winning smile.
I had reflexively glanced at the store name, Bee & Co.
Bee is my daughter.
All Bees are my Bee.
“A sample. Sure, thanks.”
“Can I show you another sample? Just in here. I know you’ll love it, I promise you.”
No.
“Sure!”
****! Betrayal. I follow him in.
The space is unnecessarily large and aesthetically devoid of personality. White walls, glass shelves, side lighting. Small clusters of bottles and jars arranged on a table here, a shelf there. It’s giving Everything Must Go; it’s giving White Woman Influencer; It’s giving American ******.
“I’m so excited for you, you’re going to just die.”
I am trapped, and we’re off to the races.
“Have a seat.”
He’s good looking, sort of wolfish, this salesman. Early-to-mid 30s. Well-groomed, brown skin, black hair, gay. Pale and underslept in that giddy way that comes with overcorrection. Coffee? Adderall? *******? It’s that look, that hungry look. His accent is warming spices and hard liquor, and boy is he talking.
Words like
collagen-medical-
<penetrating>
as he enthusiastically smears a glob of something under my eye,
“This one because it has the darker circle.”
His dark circles pool under his eyes and he intently explains the same thing over and over again.
Anti-aging,
lifting and tightening,
fine line reducing.
It’s a needy pitch,
Too thirsty.
Well what if I like my fine lines, I don’t say.
Crafted,
as riverbeds are,
as canyons;
Emblazoned, each. Earned.
Emblematic of my many lives.
(A door opens at the back; another man steps out. We make eye contact.)
The serum dries like Elmer’s glue on my delicate under eye skin.
It settles in strange places,
Pulls and distorts.
Discolors and cracks.
“I look older,” tapping it with my fingers.
“STOP TOUCHING IT!”
I stop touching it.
The mall is so close. Nothing is stopping me from leaving.
(I don’t even want it).
We can’t afford it.
There. I said it.
(I don’t leave)
-aghast-
“You can’t afford it?!”
Pearls clutched.
“You, what? Are you serious?”
(Why can’t I leave?)
Uh. Well. I have a family.
Brick.
I wanna smack him as hard as I can
Step.
I wanna be young and beautiful again
Brick.
I wanna burn this ****** to the ground.
Step.
I wanna apologize for being broke, for having bills, for ******* around.
Brick.
I don’t like this. I can get up and leave.
Step.
I absolutely have to make him like me.
But he’s irritated,
“We might as well even you out,”
As he slaps the goop under my other eye,
Still talking,
Talking a lot, a whole lot actually.
Too much.
Okay this is reaching a fever pitch and I was not prepared for the hard sell today.
His voice edges with desperation,
Shame on you for getting in your own way.
(I’m holding onto the tow line
The boat is unmanned
Reality has become unmoored
We are, none of us, truly in control)
“It will last forever, it will give you what you’re missing, it will patch up all your empty holes with collagen and kisses.
You can’t put a price on confidence
But I can tell you honest
I’ll price it half of where it’s at
To help you with the cost.”
I gotta get out of here.
“Uh.” Winning smile.
He gives me his card
(I don’t want it)
- His name “BEN” and an email address printed on receipt paper -
And with him is a torn box.
Something and something about something.
(What is reality anyway but a deeply subjective personal construct, tenuous at best, unknown and unknowable but for the rare fleeting glimpse between the gaps in the seams of the fabric of the universe?)
75% off. Because of the box.
The mirror is still on the table.
“Look look, it works, you look great”
(I don’t want it)
****.
****.
The mirror lies to me in a thousand languages as the glue shifts beneath my skin.
If you listen closely, I say, you can hear me shatter into a million pieces.
clink. clink. clink.
Ben and I skip hand in hand through the middle of the empty room to the checkout counter,
pirouette, arabesque, plie,
celebrating the space.
celebrating my face.
I am exhausted.
Ben’s hands are shaking at the counter. The WiFi isn’t working on the credit card machine. His hands. Are shaking.
“Uh.” Winning smile. “I’m really excited to start using this. Thanks for your help.”
He visibly relaxes. Has he breathed even once since I’ve been here? More employees arrive, they smile toward us. All men. All men.
I can tell Ben likes me now. He’s pleased, thank god. My whole being recoils at the thought of disappointing him, and I uncoil intentionally.
(Don’t think too hard about it.
You can’t put a price on confidence.)
I hope we never see each other again.
“How old are you?” He actually asks me.
A lady never tells.
“I’m 40.”
I’m 39 but getting the feel for it.
Forty. 40. I’m forty. I’m four hundred and forty.
I am ageless as time and vast as consciousness.
He feigns surprise.
I tell him he looks young.
He calls me cute and gives me a hug.
I turn to dust and blow away.
“Can I show you something? I think you’ll appreciate it.”
You don’t know me.
Winning smile.
“What’s that?”
He takes off his sweatshirt - “don’t worry” - and rolls up his sleeve.
A tattoo. Just above the crook of his elbow. He beams triumphantly.
TRUST THE PROCESS
This is a story about an interaction I had yesterday when I let myself be bullied into buying eye cream. All events happened exactly as portrayed.
