I Wanted To Murder My Cheating Boyfriend, But I Did Something Much More Disturbing

The next day, it was too muggy out to wear long-sleeves or even a light jacket, so I made a pit stop on the way to Sammie’s house.

Walking in, it felt like any other makeup shop. Girls with contoured cheeks and flawless eyebrows stared me down, like I wasn’t worthy of walking through their precious aisles. I usually avoided places like this, dodged them like they would infect me with their materialism, but I needed a bottle of concealer to cover up my cuts. I would’ve bought it online, like I bought everything else, but I needed it to match my skin tone to a tee. Plus, I didn’t want to wait for it to be delivered. Twenty-first century problems.

After two seconds of browsing, the most unnatural woman there, an older lady with neon blue lips and pencil thin eyebrows, asked me if I needed any help.

“Just point me toward the concealer if you could.”

She narrowed her eyes, examining me for a few moments, and then pressed her palms against my cheeks. I’d heard of workers giving out complimentary makeovers, but I hadn’t heard of anything like this. It felt like a form of sexual harassment. Except… It was kind of relaxing, like a massage without any movement. Her hands felt warm. Calloused. Chilly. Soft. It was a bizarre series of sensations. Sensations I never thought could coexist.

“Honey,” she said, her voice as soft as silk. “We have a special place in the back for you.”

I took a step away, so she’d drop her hands from my face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what you’re looking for isn’t here. But I know where it is. I can get it for you.”

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