provocatively toward Brook and me. “Ok, Ellie, now taste me.”
We all burst into laughter as Amber shakes her meager bosom side to side, the powder rising off her skin like a flour cloud. Brook and I claim two other flavors and the three of us set about administering a very formal taste test of each. The honey is by far my favorite and I lightly dust my neck and shoulders with the golden glitter.
“So,” Amber says, licking some strawberry powder off her finger, “what happened with the Kar King?”
Brook sighs heavily and bends over the counter, her ample bosom on shimmery display. “Lord almighty, Ellie, I should’ve listened to you. You told me you didn’t think he was ‘The One,’ but I wouldn’t listen. All I could see was his big house and fancy cars. Hell, I had my boobs done for that man and he didn’t even offer to pay for half the surgery. Anyway, I went to pick him up last night after closing and found him and that actress of his getting busy in one of the certified pre-owned,” Brook says, her angry excitement jiggling beneath the mini-dress.
I step forward and wrap my arms around her in a hug. When she sniffles into my shoulder, I try to recall my mother’s method for getting eyelash glue out of cotton.
“Shh,” I say, rubbing circles across her back the way Luanne did for me last night. “Don’t give him another thought.” I rock Brook from side to side for a moment until she stops her sniffling and pulls away.
“I don’t know why you’re upset, Brook,” Amber says, thumbing through a magazine as she nestles into her chair in the shop’s only shadowy corner. “That guy is a sleaze ball and you can do better. He owns a used car dealership in the middle of Nowhere, Texas, and he’s got the worst toupee ever made. I say good riddance.”
“I’m with Amber. My mama always says, ‘Men are scum,’” I say, bracing my hands on Brook’s shoulders.
“Does that include Tim?” Amber asks snidely.
I hesitate for a just a moment. On my way in to work I decided not to tell Amber about Tim and me, but Brook’s face is practically begging for some solidarity, and I can’t hold back.
“Actually, Tim and I broke up.”
Amber immediately puts down the magazine she’s been reading and rushes over to the counter. I wish I could say this was out of some sort of sisterly affection between us, but I know how much she loves misery. I really can’t deny her this small pleasure.
“What do you mean you and Tim broke up?” Brook asks, her sad expression replaced with eager excitement, her eyes wide at the prospect of fresh gossip.
“You and Tim, perfect Tim, broke up?” Amber’s tone is far too happy sounding. “I knew it! When you didn’t come back from lunch yesterday I knew something had happened. Did you catch him in the act, Karl style?”
“Actually, yes, I did.”
“You didn’t come back after lunch yesterday?” Brook asks, suddenly more invested in business rather than the tragedy of my breakup. “Did you remember to clock out?”
“Nice, Brook. She tells you she caught her man in the act with another woman, and all you care about is her timecard?”
“Of course not, Amber, but I do have a business to run!” Brook spits back. Seeing my teary eyes she immediately changes gears and places a conciliatory hand on my forearm. “Come on, sugar, tell your Aunty Brook what happened.”
Aunty Brook, my ass.
“He’s been sleeping with one of our neighbors. I don’t know how long it’s been going on, but it’s definitely over between us.”
“What’d I tell you? Men are scum,” Amber says.
“I said that.”
“Whatever, the point is that now we’re all single and we’re free to go out and flirt with every man in Harlow County,” says Amber.
“In your case, Amber, I’m guessing flirting means tying a guy up with chains and whipping him until he cries for his mommy?” asks Brook.
Amber’s smile is devilish, and she lets the accusation hang in the air as she makes her way back to the corner.
“Listen, baby, I’m real sorry about you and Tim but I think it’s for the best, you know? And I think I’ve got the perfect man for you,” says Brook.
“No, thank you! I think I’m done with men for a while. Anyway, I’ve made a new resolution not to date any more of my ‘type,’” I say, fingers raised in quotation marks. “This is