Once in a while
on a weeknight
I’d scrape up a few bucks
to get a couple beers
at the corner bar.
I’d never talk to anyone,
just sit and drink,
sometimes playing the jukebox
with any leftover change.
Before I went out,
I’d clean up a bit,
layering a pendant
over a dark turtleneck
and blow-drying my hair.
I’d put on eyeliner,
just enough
so it didn’t smudge,
and feather my lashes
with mascara,
just enough
so it didn’t clump.
When I lived with Mike
he’d always get mad
if I wore fitted clothes,
fixed my hair,
or wore makeup.
He said none of that
did any good anyway,
and that I was simply
putting out signals
to other men.
“What do you need all
this shit for?” he’d say
as he rummaged through
my clothes and makeup.
“Like, don’t you know
it’s not gonna change you.”
One night,
he pulled all my clothes
from the closet
and heaved them
in the corner.
Still in a fury,
he pitched all
my makeup in the trash,
handing me the bag
to take to the dumpster.
“No,” I said.
“I mean, that’s my stuff.”
He pushed me then
and pulled my hair,
thrusting the bag in my hand.
“I don’t want to tell you twice,” he said.
“Get rid of this crap.”
I faced him for a minute,
his shoulders heaving,
his face bright red.
Walking out the door,
I watched him watch me
through a steamed over window
before I walked back in.
“Now go wash your face,” he said.
“Don’t let me see you
until you do.”
The next day I stayed in bed,
my body pressed as close
as it could get
to the paneled wall.
I pulled the blanket
over my head,
listening to him shower
and clatter dishes,
waiting for him to leave.
I got up
when I heard
his tires crunch
on the crusted dirt drive.
I rehung all the clothes
he had piled in the corner,
then ate a bowl of cereal
with milk and sugar.
I finished the cup
of cold coffee
he’d left near the sink,
and smoked a couple cigarettes,
one inside
and one outside,
feeling the low sun on my skin.
Pulling on some jeans
and a floral blouse
I went to the drugstore,
buying more mascara,
and shoplifting an eyeliner.
The store clerk nodded,
asking me if that was everything.
“Yes,” I said.
“I think so.”
Walking back,
I held my head high,
watching green leaves
flip their silver undersides,
thinking of how
I’d hide the makeup,
maybe in a sock,
maybe under the sink,
saving it to wear
on the day
I’d move out.
