CHAPTER THREE

It takes another week before I arrange to meet Boyoung for lunch. I tell myself that it’s not because I’m afraid of what the email says but rather I’m engaging in safe bereavement behavior and not making hasty decisions so soon after my dad’s death. This isn’t lying to oneself; it’s self-care.

I end up arriving at the mall thirty minutes early because I’m a ball of anxiety. I don’t know if I’m making the right decision. I keep wavering between two sayings: “Ignorance is bliss” and “Knowledge is power.” The knowledge one is winning out mostly because I already know something. My ignorance was pierced when I received the email. Or maybe it was when I ran the email through the machine translation. What I think I know is eating away at me. The saying should be “Full knowledge is power” because half knowledge is something that drives you to the brink of disaster.

I try to kill the extra time by wandering in and out of the stores close to the restaurant. The makeup-store display lures me in.

“Want a cut-crease tutorial?” an eager staff person offers. “It’s free.”

Who can turn down free? Not me. “Sure. Why not?”

Eye makeup, particularly eyeliner, has always been a struggle for me—as evidenced by everyone from my mother to Boyoung trying to fix my eyes at the funeral last week.

“Do you have a look you want to try? Like an evening out or a work face?” the clerk asks as she leads me over to a vanity station.

“I’m pretty helpless when it comes to eyeshadow. I don’t think I even know what a cut crease is.” I climb onto the stool in front of a brightly lit makeup mirror. When I see my reflection, I realize it’s too well lit. I can count every pore in my nose.

“Oh, a cut crease is perfect for you because your fold isn’t that pronounced so you can create extra definition in your eyes by using color.” The staff person gathers a few supplies, applies a primer, and then starts to dab color onto my lids with small brushes. “Are you meeting up with a guy? Or is it work? Close your eyes.”

“A friend. A female friend,” I answer as I lower my lids.

“Cool. She’ll be so jealous. This color of brown is going to look gorgeous on you. Okay, open your eyes.”

I start to obey when the woman orders, “No. Sorry. Close again.”

This process goes on for a few more minutes. The clerk mutters to herself and then I feel a damp cotton round swipe across my eyelid.

“I think the brown was the wrong color. I’m going to try something different,” the clerk says.

I don’t even have to see my reflection to know this is not going well, but I do anyway. The color, which I’m sure looks great on everyone else, makes me look like I got punched in the face.