“So, how did you and Doug meet?” she asks, cutting her meal into perfect bites.
“Film course.”
“In college?”
Embarrassment turns the food on my tongue ashen. I avoid talking about my education, or lack thereof, and most of the timeI can get away with changing the subject. There’s no casual way to admit I’m a college dropout because the classes moved at a rapid pace and I couldn’t keep up and flunked out.
“Uh, no. I didn’t graduate. It was a paid course to learn about drones and documentary film.”
“And Molly?”
Her lack of probing stuns me, and the half-formed response I had fizzles away. “I, uh, hired her after Doug said she was an accountant. I don’t understand how taxes work.”
“They do that on purpose.” She stabs a green bean, spearing it on her fork. “I’ve made it my life’s purpose to beat them at their own game.”
Uh…what?
“Do you not pay taxes? I’m pretty sure that’s super illegal.”
“No,” she laughs. “I keep every receipt, invoice, and business expense. Then I deduct it all. Down to the penny.”
Her laughter is maniacal, like she finds joy in knowing some poor guy is sweating bullets when she files her taxes every year. Given the color-coded, tabbed binder she showed me, I think the fear is valid.
Our dishes are swept away, and as soon as the tray disappears, Sofía hauls her bag out from under the seat. It’s massive, deep and wide, and her entire forearm disappears into the open pocket.
A bag of tiny bottles appears, followed by a silk face mask and a…hat?
She swipes her face with a rag, the once-white towel now mottled with smears of brown, black, and ochre. It takes longer than I’d like to admit to realize she’s removing her makeup, considering I didn’t know she was wearing any in the first place. The cap of the first bottle pops open, and she dumps pink liquid onto her fingers, then dabs it onto her face. Her hands wave through the air, creating a small breeze to dry it onto her skin.
“What are you doing?” I pick up a small glass tub full of cream, but she plucks it from my grip and unscrews the cap.
“My skincare routine.”
There are four more bottles in the bag, plus two tubs. I would call this an in-depth routine.
“You do this every night?”
Her fingers pause on her cheeks. “Yes.”
“Impressive.” I steal the next bottle she sets down. “Can I do it, too?”
Her head snaps to mine. “Huh?”
A sheepish smile tilts my lips. “I wash my face with bar soap. That pink stuff looks way better.”
“Bar soap?”
Her sharp gasp turns heads, and I blush, but she’s oblivious to the attention, her body turned to me. After digging through her things, she passes me hand sanitizer, a wipe, and the first bottle of the sparkly pink liquid.
“Sanitize, wipe, then pour a small amount of the toner on your fingers and dab it onto your skin,” she says, and I follow her steps. “Dab. Don’t rub.”
Dainty fingers wrap around my wrists and guide my movements like she’s the rat beneath my chef’s hat, pressing my fingers against my cheek, then pulling them away. When she’s confident I understand the motion and I’m close to choking on my laughter, she releases me.
Her cheeks are dewy and pink, and she hands me the next step of the routine. Under Sofía’s watchful eye, I complete the five remaining tasks. She packs away the vials before pulling out a new bag.
“How many bags do you have in there?”
“Seven? I’m not sure of the exact number.” She dips her pinky nail into a tub, then gestures it to me. “This is an overnight lip mask. Makes them soft.”
