Alpha to Omega

I don’t like the way lipstick looks on coffee cups. When I see it, I feel a grimace and I think of saliva and that way that it smells on the palm of your hand if you lick it.

It’s always old women who leave lipstick on coffee cups, bright pinks and reds, such a contrast on the stark white porcelain lip of the generic coffee house coffee cup. They press their lips together and they press them to the cup and the excess lipstick that hides in the creases of their lips, that mixes with the coffee and the saliva, imposes itself upon the cup, oily and thick and leaving layers of texture that make me think of Jackson Pollock. And then it’s supposed to mean something; this is a strange imprint. These are the creases of laughter and discontent and life and maybe this is why I don’t like looking at it—maybe I feel like I shouldn’t be observing this—is this some ridiculous testimonial? It’s like a fingerprint, but far more predisposed to circumstance, and therefore far more personal.

I don’t know why it’s always the old women who leave the bright blemish on the coffee cups—the older you get, the less lipstick you should be leaving on coffee cups and on your lips. Lipstick is for women with wonderful lips, the kind infused with pig fat or hours of kissing, and not for women who have the drawn, thin and creased lips of time. I’m sure they mean to cover up their lips of time, but they only end up highlighting them in the end.

I always wipe the stain off when I’m wearing lipstick, compulsively and after every sip. It’s not easy, being so thick and viscous and oil based. It just leaves a big smear.