“Couples costumes are cheesy,” I said. “Let’s go to Touchdowns for burgers instead,” I said. But it’s my girlfriend’s sorority party and I can’t leave her hanging. Apparently, Captain Hook needs eyeliner.
“You’re going to love it,” Kenna says, smudging it with the pad of her finger. Her ginger-minty breath is warm on my cheek.
I’m about to say “Don’t poke my eye out,” but I’m quiet. She’ll be done faster if I stay still.
“All done.”
The mirror shows someone, me, I guess, but. My eyes, usually sad, are … intense, watchful. Dangerous. I stare.
“Holy shit.”
I’m fucking … beautiful.
Cynthia Hamill 