Red Wine

The thick smell of red wine polluted the kitchen air. It gave the illusion that a well-off drunken man was breathing into your face. The atmosphere was cold – cluttered shelves lined the rusty colored walls, but emptiness took advantage of each crevice and clung to it for support. The room sat lifeless for no more then three minutes at a time, but if you were to close your eyes, you’d never be able to tell there was someone there. A small framed man sat at his table in silence and swirled Cabernet in his crystal glass; his eyes however were occupied with the red nail polish chipping from his lengthy fingernails. A long strand of black, frizzy hair fell in front of his eyes and he strategically moved it behind his ear. His fingers fell upon a cascade of jewels that dangled from his earlobe and he toyed with each glass diamond as if it were real. His eyes fell upon his glass, half full for only a moment longer.
Raindrops fell heavily upon the windows and echoed off the tile floor. The man stood from the tiny table and sleepily walked over to wine cabinet filled mostly with empty bottles of expensive wine. He pulled out a new bottle and walked back to the table with it. After taking out the cork he filled his glass again and drained it just as fast. He filled it again and set the open bottle down next to a newspaper from weeks before. His nylon coated legs shook nervously and he watched a clock that hung above the stove. 5:02 AM Eastern Standard Time. He pulled his robe tightly around himself and reached for a remote. A small television turned on and an anchor woman spoke about local news; an old library was broken into downtown but nothing seemed to be missing, and an annual parade was postponed due to the heavy rainfall and ever dropping temperature. The sound of heels clicked through the house from above him and a tall beautiful woman came into the kitchen.
“Good morning.” She did her very best to smile sincerely at him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“I think I need to go back to the salon today. My nails look dreadful.” He continued to chip away at the paint.
“Here.” She pulled a twenty dollar bill out of her wallet and placed it on the table beside his glass.
“You don’t understand the pressure put on me to look beautiful all the time. I feel like you don’t even notice how much effort I put in to looking my best.”
He found his glass to be empty once again and refilled it with shaky hands. She fixed herself a cup of coffee and left. He wrapped his skeletal fingers around his wine glass, left the television on, and went upstairs into a bathroom. He watched himself stare back into his own eyes that were heavy with the bags that hung beneath them. He lifted his free hand up to his cheek and caressed it with his fingertips.
“I am beautiful.” He took another drink of wine, but never broke contact with his own stare. He studied each movement he made as if it were a work of art. Beside the sink sat his wife’s makeup. He fumbled with the zipper for a moment before deciding to set down his glass. Once he got the bag open, he took out a tube of red lipstick and twisted it until it was useable. He pulled his lips tightly over his teeth and did his best to color in each crevice of his chapped mouth. Next he took out a long black pencil and clumsily outlined his eyes. He opened the medicine cabinet and took out a pallet of shadows; blues, greens and purples. He dipped his middle finger into a dark blue and pulled the residue over his eyelids as evenly as he could. He wiped what was left on his finger on his robe and took a step back to examine his work. He ran his fingers through his long, tangled black hair, picked up his wine glass and headed one more floor up to his bedroom.
He slid open a large mirrored door to reveal a row of flowy blouses, and women’s dress pants. He chose a long sleeve dark green top, form fitting blue jeans, and a pair of pumps similar to the color of his shirt. He set down his glass only while he changed into each piece of clothing, slowly and with great precision. He closed the closet door and examined himself in the outfit he picked. Obviously very pleased with his appearance he smiled widely and once again picked up his glass. He grabbed his purse off of a chair in the living room one floor down, walked back through the kitchen and out the back door.
He held his hands above his head at a pitiful attempt to shield himself from the rain; once he got to his car, he climbed inside and immediately checked his hair in the visor mirror. He drove himself down to the salon with ease, singing along to every love song on the radio. He pulled into a virtually empty parking lot and parked quite far away from the entrance. Although it was almost seven, it was incredibly dark outside; the rain clouds hung low in the sky and the downpour made it difficult to see anything. He remained in his car for a few minutes with the radio off, clicking his nails on the steering wheel. He felt as if a weight had dropped in his chest and for a moment he realized what he was doing. A lump rose in his throat, and though he tried his best to stop it, it was inevitable. He began shaking with adrenaline and crying hysterically into his hands.
“I’m ruining my life. I’m losing everything that ever meant anything to me.” He paused. It was if a switch was turned back off in his head and immediately he stopped. He flipped down the visor again to look in the mirror.
“I look terrible.” He reached into his purse on the seat beside him and took out a pack of tissues. He dabbed tears away from underneath his eyes and wiped away streaks of smeared black makeup from his emaciated cheeks. The bags beneath his eyes were almost black with resilient residue from his tears and attempt at beauty. He slung his purse over his shoulder, shut the visor and ran across the parking lot and into the salon.