bar lights.
“Oh,” she said when she pulled out the lipstick.
“I noticed you don’t wear makeup, but—”
“I don’t know how to do it right. My mom gets on me sometimes about wanting me to wear it. She said if I want to find a husband I’ll have to learn. She has no idea how to put it on either, so she can’t judge.”
Oh, great, a husband, I thought.
“You think I need it?” she asked.
“No, no,” I said.
“Put it on me, then.”
“Okay.”
I unwrapped the plastic and took the tube out of the cardboard box. I clicked it open.
“Pucker up,” I said.
She parted her lips. I’d never been so close to her face before. Her scent was very clean, soapy. The way she had her mouth open, just slightly, drove me crazy. I wanted to stick my finger in there. I wanted to touch her saliva, use it to trace the pronounced bow of her top lip, paint her with her own spit. Her lips were already so wet. They were too wet, in fact, for me to correctly put on the lipstick.
“Wait,” I said. “Let me do something.”
Gently I took my cloth napkin and blotted the moisture off her lips. Then I dabbed on the lipstick, lightly at first, then heavier, tapping out a gentle melody, then another. I put on way more than she needed, because I didn’t want to stop.
“Okay, okay,” she said.
I sat back on the bar stool and looked at her. It was witchcraft. She was transformed. With a few strokes of my hand, she’d gone from chaste lamb to pout mouth, suckling pup to pulp tart. Where before, her beauty was in her purity, the lipstick rendered her tramp-lipped, vamp-kissed, kind of a harlot. But what was hottest was the way her innocence still radiated, like a young girl who’d gotten into a woman’s makeup bag and wasn’t sure if she was going to get in trouble—but liked it.
“Wow,” I said, revealing her to herself in the mirrored side of the lipstick case.
“Mmmmm,” she said shyly, contemplating the small reflection. “It does look nice.”
“Vixen,” I said.
She smiled widely, smearing lipstick on her teeth.
May I lick them clean? I thought.
“So,” I said casually. “What’s good here?”
CHAPTER 25
“We’ll start with wonton soup,” Miriam said to the waiter, after we’d moved over to one of the pink banquettes. “Then we’ll have pepper steak, sesame chicken, chef’s special pan-fried noodle, and duck fried rice.”
The waiter blew air through his lips, as though doubtful we would eat all that food—or concerned that we might.
“Oh,” said Miriam. “We’ll also take a pu pu platter. Bring that after the wonton soup but before the rest of the food is served. Tell the chef to leave a little time.”
“I’m sorry, the pu pu platter is only for four or eight persons,” said the waiter.
“Four is fine,” said Miriam, winking at me.
Her teeth were clean of lipstick now, but she’d gotten it all over her straw. It belonged there somehow, with the watermelon bowl and cocktail umbrellas, like a retro pinup girl was out for a night on the town, devastating everyone.
“Anything else, Rach?” she asked.
“Uh-uh.” I shook my head.
“And two more of these,” Miriam said to the waiter, pointing to the Scorpion Bowls. “Very cold.”
“Oh, I’m okay,” I said.
“Fine, then one. She’ll share mine,” she said.
Then she looked at me.
“Can’t handle it?” she said, smirking.
She was more pleased with my reaction to the wonton soup. When I took my first bite, the soft noodle gave way to a garlicky inside, releasing a stream of salty broth in my mouth, and I moaned out loud.
“Good, right?” she asked.
“Oh my god,” I said with my mouth full of food.
“I told you this place was great,” she said. “Just because it’s kosher doesn’t mean it’s bad.”
“No, I wouldn’t have thought that,” I said.
Little did she know that any kind of Chinese food, good or bad, would have been amazing to me, as I had not tasted it in so many years.
“They do those wontons totally with chicken,” she said proudly. “No pork.”
“Wow.”
I watched the way she wielded her spoon, orchestrating every bite. First, she added spicy mustard to the bowl of broth. Then she moved methodically, wonton by wonton, breaking them in half, dunking the halves in duck sauce, before popping them in her mouth. I followed her lead, copied her method. The wontons burst in my mouth, a sweet-and-spicy party.
Then the pu pu platter arrived.
“Make way, make way,” called Miriam, as a wooden tiki bowl was set