Writing Exercise: The Hook

I cant fucking believe he said that, she said looking into the vanity.

Caught off guard, I looked up from my paper. I seemed to have been lost somewhere between fourteen across and fifteen down on todays crossword. Was she talking and I didnt realize it, or did she just start off like that? What was on her mind, what was bothering her?

I looked up into her crystal eyes where we held a silent stare longer than ordinary. I could always get lost in her eyes. She liked that fact, and used it, even tempted it out of me by returning the gaze. I know she never gets lost, never swims in the sense of wonder that I do. Was she waiting for me to reply or just pausing long enough to let me get my feet wet?

Then she looked down at the array of creams, powders, blushes, and jewelry scattered across her vanity. Grabbing her foundation, she looked back into the mirror. As she dabbed the foundation on her face, I wondered what she meant. Who was he and what did he say? Why was it so fucking unbelievable.

Done with the foundation, she tossed it down amid the rest of the make up. She never used a lot of foundation, and she was particular about how she used it. Her mom used Ponds face cream when she was a little girl and now she uses it religiously. There have been many times I watched her frantically throw her clothes from floor to chair to sofa to floor in a mad search for her Ponds face cream. It is probably due to this religious use of Ponds that her skin is so nice. Why would she need to use much foundation if her skin is typically blemish free.

She once told me that she doesnt like a certain type of foundation because its too cakey. Whatever she does use never quite shows. I have sat in a number of bars and seen women who probably did use the cakey foundation. They sit there with their textureless faces waiting for the next guy to buy them a drink. They may not always leave with someone, but they almost always leave with the slightest bit of foundation smeared across the collars of their Abercrombie Pea coats.

I looked up at the mirror to watch her. She was putting eye shadow on. I could look at her eyes as she took the small felt brush and spread two shades of eye shadow on.

The two of us, she continued, hadnt seen each other in four of five days. As she told me more of the story, she switched over to the other eyelid, first applying the base color with the fatter tip of the eye shadow brush, following it with a highlighting color. She didnt always use two colors when she put eye shadow on, but today she bought a new shirt that she wanted to match.

For me, it is simple. My belt should match my shoes. Beyond that, I dont really care too much. But her attention to detail was often very impressive, or at least it was often well executed. Last week, I saw her with a rich green eye liner on, matching her simple green hoody. Simple, yet it caught my eye. Had she ever worn green eye liner before?

She turned around on the stool and looked at me. The large round mirror of the vanity framed her like a photo. Lost in the thought of her eyes last week, I wondered if she turned around because I should have been saying something.

I looked from her to a black framed photo on the wall and said, Well I dont see anything wrong with that. He was only telling you how he felt.

She swiveled back to face the mirror and grabbed her eye liner. Feeling defeated, I wondered if my reply was unjust.

Exasperated, she pulled one eyelid down and said, It wasnt that that pissed me off. In fact, I agree with him. It wasnt until a little later that the bastard really pissed me off.

Looking in the mirror at me, she switched to her other eye with the eye liner brush. As she turned to look in her other eye, we broke eye contact. Slowly sliding the eye liner pen across the bottom of her left lid, she continued, So we left to go get dinner.

She tossed the eyeliner down amid all the other shades, probably one for every different outfit she owns. She grabbed her mascara and unscrewed the brush. Dammit. She through the mascara down and grabbed another brush, one that had not dried up I presume. As she shook the tube, I listened to her recount the events that led up to this. She twirled the brush over her eyelashes, pausing to punctuate the story, first the lower eyelashes, than the upper ones. When she was finished to fluttered her eyelids to spread the mascara a little more evenly.

I watched her put down the mascara and grab her small compact of blush. The brush of several hundred fine black hairs was poised in her hand like a cigarette as she added a dramatic pause to her story.

I can almost see what you are getting too, I replied, and I sure as hell hope it is not going there.

Oh, it is, she confirmed as she powdered the tips of the brush and sprinkled the blush over her cheeks.

She promptly stood up and walked into the bathroom. A few moments later she walked out with a toothbrush in her mouth. Pacing back and forth as the brush worked back and forth, she continued recounting last nights events. Occasionally she would tilt her head back to clear the toothpaste foam just enough to tell me what she was last saying to him.

Returning to the bathroom, I heard the all to familiar sound of the running faucet, followed by the sound of spit and then the swishing of water in the mouth. She turned off the faucet and I heard the three dull clicks of the toothbrush striking the side of the porcelain sink to shake out excess water.

She walked out and started rifling through her purse, until she found her small black and gold tube of lipstick. I recall making a trip to purchase that for her because she lost her last tube. It is probably hidden under a pile of clothes with a lost bottle of Ponds face cream. As the cap clicked off, she turned to the mirror, while twisting out the lipstick. Tightening her lips, she slowly dragged the red pointed tip back and forth across her lips, while stating that they had just finished ordering dessert when things started to get out of hand. She slid the lipstick one last drag over her upper lip and lower lip, and then slid her lips across one another. Then she kissed the mirror to blot her lipstick. Another perfect set of lips added to the twenty three other prints already on the mirror. Almost one for everyday shed been living here.

And thats what he said.

Shocked, I replied, What a fuck. I cant believe he said that.

As she grabbed her coat, she tossed her lipstick back into the purse and looked at me.

How do I look?

Fantastic, as always.

Lets go.

Lets do.