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There is something that I love about lipstick. Its an addiction, almost; I'm always wearing it. All my makeup is lovingly applied-creamy foundation; soft, airy powder; eyeshadow in dark blues and browns-but the lipstick is always last, always stroked on so carefully with a brush, always perfect. Always red. I'll experiment with other types of makeup, but the lipstick stays in shades of carmine, like blood as it darkens and slowly begins to clot.
I changed all that for her. She loved the red so, so much--she's the one who first compared it to blood--but I think all my darkness and my smooth edges intimidated her a little. She couldn't fully open up to me, and that's what the senior partners wanted her to do. That's what I wanted her to do.
So I threw away all the red lipstick and bought a thousand shades of pink. Frosty, glossy, matte--didn't matter, it all went into my bathroom cabinet. And then, of course, I had to change everything else-soften the clothes, bring out the blond highlights in my hair and layer it a bit. Its all about the look with me. It all has a purpose. Then, intimidation and pure sex; now, comfort.
It worked. She hates the pink, because she misses the tasty blood color that reminded her of killing, but she started to talk to me. Started to open up, the way that she was supposed to.
Darla likes to lick the pink lipstick off my mouth. When I come into her room-then few times that I can convince fucking Lindsey to stay out and leave us alone-her eyes light up and her lips curl into a smile. She will turn up the lights that she so despises--they remind her of the day, of the sun, of the color of the Slayer's hair--and push me down onto her soft bed, cleaning my lips with her tongue.
I changed everything for her because I can see it in her eyes: she loves me. She'd do anything for me.
And isn't a little image change worth that?
