Gloss

We spend a couple of hours in Superdrug, playing with nail polish testers until every fingernail is a different glittery colour. Tammy’s mouth is a deep plummy purple – so juicy I want to take a lick. She scrubs the gloss off with a tissue, grabs the next, a cerise too pink for her skin tone.

“What d’ya think?” she asks, pursing her lips like she’s kissing the air.
Her eyes laugh at me as I stammer out: “So cool!”
Gaze fixed on mine, she snaps the cap on the gloss, stuffs it in her pocket, fast. “Now you.”
I can’t breathe, but she’s watching me. Daring me. Quickly I grab the plummy purple, stick it down my top, into my bra. See admiration and surprise widen her pupils.
We run out of the shop, giggles spilling.
Back home, I slide the lip gloss from my bra, feel it breast-warm in my hand. I tip it over, read the name: bruised kiss. Meet my own thickly mascara-lashed stare in the mirror. Feel something more bitter than sweet.