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I nod and shoot her a teary smile.
“Thanks, Hannah. Sometimes it just doesn’t feel like I’ll ever meet anyone as good as Dane again.”
“Have you been dating on-line?” she asks kindly. “My oldest daughter Angela says that SundayBongo is the site to be on. It has a funny name, but you know that doesn’t mean much. They just think of funny names because it’s catchy.”
I smile despite myself.
“No, I’m not online because I want to give myself some time to recover from my broken heart,” I say ruefully. “But I’ll consider it. SundayBongo? Is that a new site? There are so many different dating sites these days, and they cater to everyone under the sun. There are dating sites for Christians, for farmers, for Christian farmers, and for Christians who used to be farmers. It’s crazy.”
Hannah chortles.
“I know, right? I don’t know if SundayBongo has a particular focus, but my Angela tells me that it’s a good one. Give it a try, honey,” she says encouragingly. “I’ll even pay for your first month.”
I smile again at her while shaking my head.
“No, that’s okay, although I really appreciate it. I have to get out of this funk and it just takes time. But don’t worry, I’ll let you know as soon as I’m signed up with SundayBongo,” I say cheerily. “Thanks for the tip!”
Hannah smiled and turned to a customer who had just walked in. That conversation took place probably a month ago, but of course, I haven’t signed up for SundayBongo nor any other dating sites. It just doesn’t feel right because the truth is that I don’t want to move on from Dane.
It’s funny. I know I’m twenty-five, and my life’s not over. In fact, my life is only beginning. I’m considered a young adult, and have many decades before me. Yet ever since that fateful confrontation with Amelia, I’ve been a total zombie. The world looks gray to me, and every day, rain clouds seem to hang over my head. It’s hard for me to even smile sometimes, and I have to force myself to do it so that customers don’t think I’m depressed.
Yet, I just can’t get myself to move on. When I close my eyes at night, I see Dane’s handsome face. I see that cleft jaw, his piercing blue eyes, and the strong nose. I see how his teeth gleam white when he smiles, and how he laughs with the right side of his mouth going higher than the left. I can feel his large hands on me again, that that enormous body huge and dominant, looming above me in bed. It’s then that I wake up with dampness in my eyes, knowing that I’ve dreamt of Dane once again.
Yet what do I do? He’s expecting a child with his ex-wife, who is currently living in his house. After Amelia made her announcement, I saw the moving truck pull up to his home not three days later. The blonde woman was there, directing the movers like she was the Queen of Egypt. Dane, meanwhile, never came out of the house.
So here I am, stuck in purgatory with nowhere to go. It’s like I’m always in a state of in-between, neither here nor there. I’m a ghost, drifting through life aimlessly, and it’s hard for me to focus.
Suddenly, Trish comes to the back to get me.
“Someone’s here to see you,” she announces rather loudly. Her hair is bright red this week, and done up in a rockabilly style with suicide curls and a bright red handkerchief. It’s really cute actually, and suits her pale skin and crimson lips.
“Oh okay,” I say, wiping at my eyes. “Is it my next client?”
Trish stares at me, her hands on her hips.
“No, it’s not your next client, and here, we need you to look better,” she says. “Take this,” she continues, handing me a Kleenex.
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
She nods.
“It is that obvious, but we can’t have you looking like this.” Trish magically procures a make-up bag from behind her back and literally descends on me like a Fury. She’s patting powder on my face and lipstick on my lips even as I draw back in confusion.
“Trish, what’s going on?” I cough through the mess of talc in the air. “What the hell? I mean, I know I look like Death warmed over, but it can’t be that bad, can it?”
She merely shrugs, her eyes intent on my face.
“A little bit of blush,” she murmurs to herself, “a wee bit of mascara, and then some glitter for your cheeks.”
“No glitter!” I shriek, throwing up an arm bar so that she can’t touch me. “Absolutely no glitter.”
But Trish manages to get a few sprays in, even as I duck to avoid the sparkly stuff. She backs away, still staring at me while reflecting on her work.
