This Won't End Well by Camille Pagán

Author:Camille Pagán [Pagán, Camille]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781542014823
Published: 2020-02-24T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-THREE

August 31

After cleaning First Presbyterian this afternoon, I dropped off my supplies at home and drove to the liquor store to buy wine. I don’t have a firm grasp on what most people find palatable, and the man behind the counter was no help in that he tried to sell me a frosted bottle of what purported to be a “skinny” malt-liquor beverage. When I asked why he was under the impression I needed diet alcohol, he apologized and rushed me over to a row of bottles with dessert-oriented names—then added that I would find a well-stocked ice cream freezer at the back of the store. There are days, many in fact, when I remain convinced that women cannot win. We ask for equal pay and a seat at the table, and instead we’re handed control-top pantyhose and pink wine with cupcakes on the label.

The latter of which, sadly, is precisely what I walked out of the liquor store holding. This is not on account of successful marketing, but rather because Todd’s doppelgänger entered the store seconds after the clerk disappeared, and I panicked and grabbed the first thing within reach. By the time I had paid for my lady libation, I’d already spotted the man again and realized he had far too much hair to be Todd—but I couldn’t shake my apprehension and wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.

Here I am, complaining about the gender-role status quo—yet when it came time to get dressed and ready to go to Harper’s, I found myself wishing for a reference book (say, Grooming Rituals of the Female Homo Sapiens or How Not to Look Ridiculous). As I rummaged through my closet, it occurred to me that I possess but two types of clothing: business casual, for which I no longer have any use, and glorified pajamas. Since Jon’s departure, I have occasionally worn the same yoga pants and T-shirts for up to seventy-two hours, transitioning from day to night with alarming ease. I could drag myself to the mall, of course, but I have no doubt that I would spend a month’s worth of what is admittedly meager pay on items that were inevitably identical to the ones I already own.

A somewhat confusing internet search educated me on the “high/low” principle espoused by so-called style gurus, and so I opted for a pair of wool work slacks and a plain navy T-shirt. Leesa helped me choose a concealer earlier in the year, though I never did tell her I was buying it because Todd kept insisting I looked exhausted and needed a night in a hotel. I dabbed a bit of that under my eyes, applied lip balm, and decided that was that.

After some internal debate about when I should show up, I decided I would to mine own self be true and arrived at Harper’s at eight on the dot. I rang the doorbell and waited, and though I heard noise coming from within, she did not answer.

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