Page 109 of Famous for a Living

I look down at it, frowning. “What are you doing?”

Click.

Click.

Click.

“You’re going to appreciate these one day,” she says, as though she’s a mother watching her daughter run off to prom.

“Ohhh, and look at you.” She pulls the camera up higher. “Give me a spin.”

I roll my eyes but take a steadying breath of confidence at her words as I do, indeed, give a slow spin. I hear a dozen clicks as I do so.

It’s not like the man doesn’t see me every single day of my life.

It’s not like we didn’t just stand side by side in front of the office kitchen’s refrigerator four hours ago, sharing a bowl of carrots and hummus.

But still. There’s something about having someone’s undivided attention on a first official date. The declaration “Hey, we have mutually stated our interest and are willing to try on a night out for size.”

It’s all just an interview.

An interview thinly veiled with appetizers and drinks but at its core, just an interview.

You both like your salmon blackened with a lime wedge?

Lovely. One point.

You both have hilarious stories about friends who made fools of themselves at a Christmas party?

Even better. Two points.

But a deduction for every awkward pause and wrong answer stacks against you.

Get enough of them and you’re done.

And here I am, for the first time on a date really, afraid to say the wrong things.

Every time we’ve seen each other before, that kind of stress was off the table. The clock was ticking.

But tonight.

Tonight is the real game.

My dress is a bitterroot pink, according to Kevin’s lengthy lecture at its sighting today. The first flowers of spring, bravely facing the elements even before the snow has officially given up for the year.

My hair is half up, twisting and turning and secured by bobby pins at the back of my head as though I just tossed it up and it landed neatly that way (which it most certainly did not).

Lips meticulously covered and blotted with So This Is Love pink. (I used it for its pale-pink color that shimmers, oh-so-barely, and not as any sort of declaration.)

My eyes look extra-large, despite the fact that tonight I decided to play it safe and go for the triple application of mascara, opting to leave the falsies at home.

A double spritz from a bottle I found in France four years ago and only take out for special occasions.

And yes, some would call it unlucky given the first and only time I put them on was on that horrible birthday night, but the golden crystal shoes on my feet were too beautiful and sang to me too much with their siren song from their velvet lining inside the suitcase.

Besides, a tiny part of me wants to see his reaction too.

This is a part of me.