“Oh yes.” I agreed. “Ya right,” I go, went along. My mother makes me do it, did, and does. It was when I first lost hope, hope a tough word, not tough to pronounce yet it seemed to do the trick wile she began picking and pocking at me. Are you there?, she’d ask. I thought we went thru this problem during your puberty. You ‘re grown women now. She told me. I took the job; attend on weekends, after all it was how my life had been represcribed to me.
I begin my shift attending to all the teenies, the eleven-teen year-olds. They herd in; hit my stand like an ant farm spilled in a drop of kool aid. Their little pouting eyes perked up on me, flashing their lips into the mirror, dazzling their nails up over their breast, asking me about the newest and latest of products. I stand my stance, look over them, give each and every one of them who appear at my booth the means of satisfaction, as if they too are in amounts all the glamour and elegant from in the photos off models from on my counter.
After eight o’clock goes by things really start to go my way. The kiddies are gone, either on the other end off the plaza or been escorted from out by the security. Its time for all the local Friday night housewives. A time away from in the week’s displeasure’s and a way to rid its dullness. I can usually tell when it’s a house wife, she usually seems desperate, in a need for something; youth or some type of reimbursement that seems to be owed to them. I doll them up, feed the need, and set that extra twinkle into their eye. The ongoing grandeur gets to me. These women can just spray it on, dab a little on their cheeks, spread it on to their lips and its all seems to be find and dandy. I sit from behind the counter, council, tend and watch as the lividly builds from in, a lively I’m with out.
Before closing time its bimbo hour, a time for all and any to come and get a quick fix before hitting the pub, bars and clubs. They come in fresh, perked for the pickingfrom off that erotic vine. I settle in, set for what keeps me going. Questions are asked and I defend my every need for answer, go along, agree, let their pulses rise, blood as it flows in to lips, gushed in to cheeks, the sweat from on tongs as it sprays up in to my face.
“Is this edible lipstick,” She asked, I thought she was just eyeballing, was taken her to be aknow it all. She looks so well defined, her hair set strong and firm from off her head, its streaks breezing down in spills of red and blond, the natural brown as it blended in so perfectly from in their roots. Are you there? I thought, seeing my mother, her intrude, that smile she laid on me from in my closet mirror.
“I don’t no for sure.” I said, broke smiles then say. “I know it’s made up of fruits and wax.”
“It smells delicious.” She tells me setting the bubble berry lipstick from off the counter up under her noise. Her t- shirt matched the blues and greens from in the stick, even her nipples could be used in a advertisement, the pricks fromin that shirt; like a set of pinky’s reffing a thumb wrestlefight. Her skintight denim jeans wrapped around her well toned legs like a chicken bones in batter. She catches me eyeing her, I couldn’t help myself, her neck was so well textured, her gulps quenched from in my ribs, I could feel my nipples rubbing against hers.
She hums, looks on to my blouse, sets a stare from in its black knit, down on to my stomach then up on to the counter before looking in on a pulse from in my crotch. She knows that I’m a lesbian, I can sense it, and that’s not a good thing. I usually go along, watch, and set stirs from in the juices that keep my blood thirsting need from in my own flesh.
“Not a lot of people here tonight,” she said looking at me, lining her lips on to mine, running her eyes off her noise up my mine.
“Ya, it could be the rain; it’s been going on for days now.” I tell her. Rain; my savoir, my freedom from in this death defying life that I live, It’s been providing me with description, a touch that I’m with out, its read as it splashes on to my face, letting me follow it down in to the puddles around my feet, before the sun shine once again, the dry air, the death; its reflection as it strives a hunger from in the dead of beat that empties my heart.
“Ya your right,” She said reaching on to the counter and rippling the tips of her fingers along the row of lipsticks.
Am I here, that question has yet to be answered. Mother asked me, she thought I went insane, the hysteria I suffered after witnessing that I was no longer here. A ghost to my self, a phantom, I moved only in poltergeist. I was the one asking questions from there on in. It was none of my concern if they were there, the blood spilled, its life screamed from in my blood thirsting breaths. I promised my self I’d quit, take this job, cope with this so-called vampirism from behind this counter, in behind the mirror as they, the mortals, the ones with the lively blood tended to its every pulsed demanding need from in the fresh hot blood that flowed my way.
I’ve watched you,” She said then stared on as I compromised what her intentions where actually based on and she tells me again, “I have.” Her lips full from in that stretch for welcome, the blood as it flowed so smoothly along.
“I’m not a model.” I told her setting my hand on to the catalogue, the catalogue I use during my breaks, the comfort and support it provided as the other’s from in the break room where all to busy resting their tired, lifeless heads in to their arms folded on the table.
“When’s your shift over, maybe I could buy you drink” A drink she asked. A drink with me, hell I haven’t even had the opportunity to have a drink with my self and she wants to buy me, take me out for a drink. I’ve drunk with other’s, the bimbos that end up in here just before eleven. They talk up a storm from in my stand, I go along like I do, then before they could reach the front door to go on for the night they end up right back here, spraying it, those pulses flushing up in to their cheeks, their need for me being with them, to go, escort them, be their guest for the night, had me wet in places I don’t usually juice from before I step out in to the night. I lie, cheat, hoaxed for the fun of it, yet they seem to enjoy my company, companionship wile I’m telling them things a four year old would say at a tea party.
“What do ya say?” She asked, snuck up on me, leaned her self on to the counter, set her eyes on to my and sprayed that spring sprung tong lick juice on to my face. I stared, my eyes as they are had no meaning from in hers, its death letting me use hers as I do another from in the moralized life they lead. I could have just grabbed her and dug in, sucked then let the spill scream its way in to my mouth wile I danced it around, licked in terror then swallowed the horrors as she laid there staring up at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I cant, my mother’s expecting me to come straight home tonight.” She looked down; I pin in on those nipples, then her legs. I could breath a thousand life’s from in just one snip. Suck an eternity of souls as it bled on to my lips.
“That’s too bad,” She said then looked over the counter, leaned in and saw my book saying, “Because I’m the one who wrote that book and from where I’m standing you must be at chapter seven, page one, three, nine and in on the second paragraph.”
“You.” I said, looked her up and down, and then say, “She wasn’t asking the cosmetic girl out on a date.”
“Oh.” She said bringing her hand up over her mouth.
“This is your novel.” I asked her, bringing the book up from in-between my legs on the stool and set it on the counter.
She grabs it, opens it up, flick in to the last of pages, and then spreads showing the pitcher of her self to me.
“So what happens at the end?” I asked.
“What happens to every lesbian vampire?” She asked me, steps back then says, “Eternity.”
“Where else?” She said brings up her arms and smiles saying, “Where it was she was bled.”
Where it was she bled? What in the hell is that supposed to mean. She sounds worse then my mom.
“Give that cover a good look for me kid” She said, I look it over, looks the same as it did when I bought it. She steps back in to my counter, her nipples perkier then ever, they pricked out, she arches her back, lifts her hair back and sets it over her shoulder then says, “Now look in to the mirror.” She turns the mirror around, sets it in front of me then grabs the book from out of my hand and holds it up next to the mirror.
It’s me, the pitcher on the cover, the girl it’s me, my pitcher, identical to me.
“Now you want to come and read the rest.” She asked looking me back as I froze, stirring my sight in to hers, feeling her every pulse, my lips flowing to the patterns of hers, nipples pricking in to each other then the lift from in her pulse tensing crotch on to mine.
“Let’s go.” I said as the book fell to the floor, my arms fall to my side, I step out from in the counter, I could feel the puddles I had read about from in the book set my description from in the softness of wind that flowed in to me from in each one of my steps.