Don't Drink Bees

Allan Stanton eyed his wife with disgust as he knotted his paisley tie. She was gazing into the vanity mirror, re-applying fuchsia lipstick a third time. Every bleached blond hair was in place, every blemish concealed with foundation. “Putting in a lot of effort for our guests tonight.” He placed his broad hands on her delicate shoulders and squeezed slightly. “Is there anything I should know, Mel?”

She pulled away quickly. “You’ll muss me,” she said. Then, “Of course not, honey. It’s only Geoff and Tracey.” She gave him a dark look through mascara-ed eyes, the lashes stiff curtains.

“I see,” Allan said, moving to the bed. “Well, you look like a mannequin.” He bent for his shoes. “Bitch,” he whispered at the ground as he tied them.

“You know who I hate?” Melanie asked suddenly.

“No,” he said stiffly.

“The first woman who shaved her legs and the man who admired her.” She was running fingers across her shins, feeling for black stubble. “They’ve made it much harder for us women.”

“You don’t seem to mind so much,” Allan sneered. “I tell you I like you just the way you are, and you still spend five hours preparing yourself for a simple evening. Admiring your reflection has become a hobby.”

She turned from the mirror. “Just the way I am?” She laughed icily. “If you see me without blusher, you call the doctor.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Perhaps.” She raised a can of hairspray. “Still, no man but you seems to mind. I’m sure Geoff will find me worth the wait.” She arced her pearly teeth in a smile.

“Careful,” Allan said. “Your face might crack. The concrete isn’t quite dry yet.”

“You mean, foundation.” She sprayed on another coat of hairspray.

He moved to leave. “Feels like cement with all that spray on top of the mousse and gel,” he murmured.

“How would you know? You haven’t touched it in a long time,” she threw back over her shoulder.

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