Elizabeth Fairchild was not a silly woman. So naturally, she applied makeup before driving herself off a cliff.
Her mascara wand popped out of its tube comically. She was a dead woman, yet heaven help her if she looked horrid when the coroner unzipped her body bag later that night.
One swipe left. Another swipe right. One last on the left (her f*cking eyelashes had a gap in them ever since she’d plucked them out with a tweezers years ago). Her hand did not shake. She was, after all, comfortable with her fate.
Digging through her purse with her free hand, she rummaged around until her fingers brushed a pack of menthols. She flicked the top open, snatched a straight. As the cigarette caught the flame from the lighter, Elizabeth slowly puffed smoke at her reflection over the porcelain bathroom sink.
What a droll time it was, indeed. Her impending doom didn’t dishearten her. She’d never felt so indifferent. Critically, she squinted at the Elizabeth staring back at her, cigarette hanging carelessly between her lips. Her mouth tightened as she took another deep draw.
Deep-set, black eyes. Blunt cut gray hair, too wispy in the front for a lady, her dad always insisted. He also insisted on calling her Lizzie all her life. Didn’t catch on. Ladies should always have their hair in a sleek updo, he willed. Didn’t catch on either.
Elizabeth gave herself one last hard look. Let the cigarette stub teeter out her mouth. She snubbed it out with the toe of her oily black Mary Jane and grabbed a tube of lipstick from the kitchen counter. The television flickered in the front room. An arm flung over the side of the flea-bitten couch, palm up.
Right foot, left foot, over the sh*tty, linoleum floor and through the door Elizabeth carried herself. She unlocked the car door, flipped the top off the lipstick, and warmed up the poisonous red rogue on her middle finger. Smudged the cream on her right cheek, left cheek, then nonchalantly on her lips like an unholy trinity.
She pressed her Mary Jane to the ‘52 Bel Air’s brake pedal and started the engine. Blew a kiss at her reflection in the rearview mirror. The plot was set.
It was show time. And honey, Elizabeth Fairchild thoroughly enjoyed a show.