She walks into the hotel, breathing heavily with hair tousled from the wind. It was hard for her to push the rotating door in a half circle to enter the building. As always she worried that it would snag the back of her foot and achilles. She takes a brief moment to flatten her hair and gaze around the lobby. A few people look up but mostly no one notices. She doesn’t care. She has started to blend. A blend of different cities, different tastes, and different experiences. The room has already been checked in for and the magnetic key card to the door sits in her purse next to her wallet and a small pocket mirror. There is a bar at the back of the lobby. A long granite table top with high leather chairs and low hanging lights. Behind the bar a man wiping the lipstick stains off the rims of the glass wear. She approaches the bar, removes her coat and purse, and settles into a chair. After a small interaction with the man a glass of Pinot Noir sits in front of her. It sways back and forth due to its journey from bottle to glass. She watches as the legs form and the wine clings to side of the glass and leaves impressions from where it just was. She watches it slowly settle in front of her face. She thinks about the beauty of a lipstick stain as the bartender continues to clean the wineglasses from previous women. An imprint of the finest lines that make a mouth. The section of soft skin glossed over with a powerful color to add to a face. A woman wears lipstick. A woman on a date. A woman in a show. A woman who was a man and has finally been freed and comfortable to paint her lips. Lips that are only surpassed in tender moments of close contact. With the rare occasion that they are touched without want. She shakes off the image of unwanted force and refocuses on the wine glass. Her room is on the third floor but she is not interested in going up just yet. She knows what will happen in that room and because she knows so well what will go down she is not interested in seeing it play out. It seems boring to her because the plan is always the same. She lives for expectation, for them not to be ruined or lowered. She lives to be organized and planned out but tonight she craves something different and new. She wants excited and movement and to be anything but stagnant. Maybe she won’t go up at all. She could slip back through the revolving door, worry about her achilles’ and wander into the night. But she knows she will go upstairs. Slide her magnetic key card into the slot and wait for the button to turn green. Slowly pushing the door open and breathing in a deep breath before she faces him. He will smile and there will be champagne on the table. He will say she is beautiful and that he loves her. She will smile and also frown at the same time because she predicted all of this. The small lines on her lips will extend and spread towards a smile but the corners of her mouth will drip towards the ground. He is good to her and she is good to him.
Suddenly she bumps her wine glass and it shatters against the granite bar top. The sound brings her back into the present moment and she realizes what she has done. Tiny pieces of glass slide along with the red liquid and paint the bar. The glass stem rolls side to side disconnected from the base. There in the midst of it all is one large intact piece with her lipstick stain on it. The wine hides and reveals the contour of her lips as it spreads along the bar. The lipstick shows the exact replica of lines that have smiled smiles and grown taught with much sadness. The soft parts of skin that are painted over to make her feel more like a woman and less like a girl. The lines of her mouth that have been surpassed in tender moments of close contact and occasionally touched with out want. She grabs at the broken glass and places the pieces in her free hand. Wine stains her palms and burrows into the formation of her hands, more lines that tell her life story. The bartender helps her, the wine soaks into the towel leaving a different shade of red, more like a purple, a blend. It blotches and they both know the towel will be forever stained. She apologizes and wipes her hands on her dark pants. Throwing on her coat and purse she walks back across the lobby. A few people look up but mostly no one notices. She doesn’t care. She pushes on the door, worries about her achilles’, and steps into the street. The wind pushes her backwards and tousles her hair around her face and eyes. Eyelids closed and lips pressed together she smiles. The lines of her lips spread and extend while the corners of her mouth lead towards the sky. She is woman. The softest part that only the privileged get to experience in the most intimate of moments and close contact. She is a blend of where she has been and where she will go. She will cast a different shade and leave some stained forever, never the same afterwards. She begins to walk spreading across the city painting it a different color and leaving behind all the broken pieces.