by Angelique H. Caffrey
“It’s hard to be beautiful,” whined Sheri, wrapping her manicured fingers around her fourth gin and tonic.
“I mean, it’s really hard.” Her amber eyes were glazing. “But you wouldn’t know. You’re a Plain Jane. If your skin breaks out, who cares? Nobody. That’s so nice.”
I sighed. How the hell did I get stuck in a bar listening to Sheri? Why did I take pity on the colleague whose voice was so loud that noise cancellation headphones couldn’t shield me from her croaking?
“Everywhere I go, people look at me,” continued the 40-something whose state of arrested development could practically be smelled. “I have to worry about every hair, every shoe, every toenail!” She lurched forward, grabbed my hand and spat, “It takes me two hours to get ready in the morning! Two!”
I nodded, trying to figure out an exit strategy that wouldn’t get me fired. Everyone knew she was bonking the CEO.
Without warning, she screamed, “I gotta pee!” Sheri and her sparkly pink clutch left.
Our waiter came over. “Can I get you anything?”
I looked into my glass of merlot. “Nah.”
Moments later, Sheri scurried back to the table, rat-like.
“Oh God!” she moaned. “Do you have a tampon?!? I’m bleeding all over the place!”
I fished in my purse and found one. I pulled it from its crisp paper wrapper. Then I carefully dropped the tampon in my wine. It blossomed like a purple flower.
The night air was exquisite.