The Perfect Roommate by Minka Kent Read Online (FREE)
Her door swings open with a quiet creak, and I step inside. It feels wrong being in here, without her, but I trudge ahead, flicking on the light and making my way to her bathroom.
It still smells like the perfume she sprayed on twenty minutes ago, moments before they loaded up their coats and scarves and boots and braved the cold for the love of fucking sushi.
The bottle, pale pink and cut crystal, rests on the vanity, unlidded. I lift it to my nose and inhale the sweet scent. Before I realize what I’m doing, I spray it onto my left wrist. The bathroom already smells like it and she won’t notice. It’ll be faded by the time she returns anyway.
The perfume warms on my skin, making the top notes richer and the middle notes more vibrant—I learned all about “notes” from Claudette at the department store. It’s Versace. I make note of it. Maybe I’ll buy that next? A girl should have more than one perfume, I think. A scent for every mood.
The left drawer of her vanity is sticking out, and I catch a glimpse of her extensive makeup collection. Clear bins fit together like some sort of puzzle, each one containing similar products—one for mascaras, one for foundations, one for eyeshadows, one for tweezers and clippers. Her right drawer contains skin products. Vitamin C serums. Eye creams. Acne gels.
I don’t spot a single drugstore brand.
Lauren’s bathroom is basically a mini Sephora and everything is calling to me. The pretty packaging. The gorgeous palettes. The delicate mink makeup brushes.
Reaching for a peach palette covered in gold lettering, I click it open and find a set of six cream blushes. Two of the six are mostly used up, the other four untouched.
Swiping one of Lauren’s favorites—a pale pink—onto the pad of my middle finger, I dab it onto my cheek. But it doesn’t look right. I need foundation.
We’re completely different skin tones—she has pink undertones and I’m more olive-skinned, at least that’s what the lady at the department store said to us one day. But I want to try some of these, I want to compare them to my own, see if they’re worth the extra thirty or forty bucks an ounce.
Selecting a bottle of Dior foundation, I apply it all over my face with my fingers before carefully rinsing my hands in her sink, using enough soap so that when I dry them, there won’t be so much as a trace of foundation on her pink hand towel.
Next, I return to the blush bin, only I try a different color. This one is a powder, which I apply with a bushy brush that feels like a million bucks on my skin.
By the time I’m finished, I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, but the girl looking back at me in the mirror has a full face of designer makeup on and she’s smiling.
I like this Meadow better than the ruddy-faced, pissed-off version.