Creation

of a fantasy

Fifteen minutes, and we were both ready—she was made up more than me, but only slightly. Her eyelashes were long, thick, cheeks blushed, but those were the only differences. Both of us had airbrushed our skin, reddened our lips. The exact same shade of dark red. This seemed significant to me, somehow.

I wore a light purple crop top and black skirt I had borrowed from her, while she wore a very short black dress. Both of us wore stockings and black heeled boots: mine only to my ankle, hers thigh-high, almost hitting the bottom of her skirt.

“I think we’re so beautiful.” She stood just slightly behind me. “I think we’ll be the two most beautiful in the room tonight.”

“Of course we will.” It was so pleasant to me, her vanity. That she didn’t feel she had to hide it. I hated all of the lying, the beautiful girls in their beautiful posed pictures, writing captions about their deep, true love for themselves, the notion of inner beauty. It was like a long, slow exhale to me, that she didn’t pretend it was not all about what it actually was.