Date Night

I unzip my baggy charcoal hoodie and pull off my white tank top. I lob them into the laundry basket in the master bathroom and then walk in to my closet.

What should I wear?

I decide on a black short-sleeve knit top with a low-scooping neckline that dresses up my trouser jeans and shows off my jewelry. I'll wear my red flats. I smooth my hair with the round bristle brush, then open my makeup drawer.

What color lipstick? Dark pink or light and shimmery?

The little plastic tubes and brushes click together as I sift through them for a thin twist-up lip pencil by Lancome, and I trace my mouth with berry. Then I scribble in the rest of the area and top it off with a glossy stick. Next, I re-curl my eyelashes and swipe on fresh blush.

I dig for a dusty glass bottle in a basket on the bathroom counter, spray it's almond scent into the air and walk through the mist.

I check my beauty status in the mirror. My stomach bubbles. I'm nervous and not nervous.

Who is that? Is that my mother?

Already written down the numbers and walked through the routine. Taking off mommy rags and putting on wife clothes. Dad makes small talk with the sitter. We eat Kraft mac 'n' cheese and hot dogs.