She behaved badly in the bar, but when we got to the sidewalk her eyes widened again and she kept her head up off her shoulders. She was the type to kiss women in college dorms or spread rumors about a man for losing a hard on in bed. Her nose had been redone and her cheekbones, our friend swore, were redone, too. I wondered how anyone physically redoes cheekbones for a living. I wondered if a doctor had to open up her face with micrometers of explosive and close it back up again, stuffed with cotton and fat, wrapped up for weeks in tissue papers like a sad, sick, fairy tale of a birthday present.
She painted storefront glass with her lipstick, writing her name in blood orange, looping the lowercase l and e and striking the x in two long streaks. She drew pointy stars around her name. I thought about how much her body must cost. She very could have been drawing waxy red dollar signs.
She leaned her body into it. Hers was the sort of figure created out of well-disciplined starvation punctuated by a small diet of ejaculate and passed foie gras canapés served at undeserving open bars.
The lipstick broke and she broke with it, her knees buckling into the window and her leg smacking against the sidewalk. Our friend cursed under her breath and grabbed onto her, who was laughing, her hand smeared with what looked like thick blood. Her knee was scraped up from the pavement. She looked down at it and her grin twisted into a sob. Our friend chucked her cigarette at her feet wedged into shiny yellow sandals, and cursed again. She pulled a box from her bag, dabbed her two fingers in and pressed them against her bloodied knee. White powder flaked off onto the sidewalk.
She started to laugh again, lightly, through muddy tears. “Don’t waste it!” she said, laughing harder. “Fucking idiot. Don’t waste it.”