The Stopover

 Hi everyone,

here's a shortie that I've recently written. It's meant to be a part of a bigger story that I'm trying to write, so please excuse any plot gaps or mysteries.

“Simon, my computer seems to be acting up again,” my mother said to Simon, “Would you be so kind as to have a look?”

“Sure,” he said, not altogether unhappy about the opportunity to leave the room, “What’s the problem?”

“I keep getting some error messages when I log on to my email,” she said.

“OK,” he said and got off the sofa.

She didn’t even wait until he was out of the living room before she bent over to me.

“Excuse me, but is Simon wearing makeup?” she asked me in a low voice.

“That is part of a gender reconstruction therapy he is doing,” I explained.

“Excuse me, what?” she asked.

“It’s a process to help him find the true essence of his masculinity by gradually stripping away all of the male social norms and stereotypes,” I said, smiling.

“Do you actually expect me to believe that?” she replied, “Do you expect me to believe that you actually believe that?”

“That’s some kind of a program that he let himself be goaded into by my friend Gloria,” I answered.

“The one from your yoga class?” she asked, “I’ve met her once. The big lady?”

I nodded.

“Not too hard to imagine her goading Simon into anything,” she remarked, “But still, what is this reconstruction bullshit?”

Without taking too much time, I explained Gloria’s program, and the resulting immediate improvement of Simon’s overall comportment.

“But you don’t mind your husband going around wearing makeup?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“Well, he’s learned to be real subtle about it, and it’s not like the male face is so much superior to a woman’s that it wouldn’t need improvement,” I said, “But yeah, as long as that keeps him from acting like a total asshole around my friends, I don’t mind it at all.”

“How did she get him to wear it in the first place?” my mother asked.

“Her size might have helped a little,” I smirked.

“Do you think,” she said, then paused.

“Yes?” I smiled at her expression.

"I'm not as big as Gloria, obviously, but still bigger than him," she said, “If I tell him to fix his makeup, do you think he’ll do it?”

"At this point, I'm not sure the size matters at all," I said, "He just does as he's told."

"So you think he'd do it?" she asked.

“Only one way to find out,” I chuckled.

“I couldn’t find anything wrong,” he said, sitting back at the sofa, “I didn’t see any error messages, either.”

“Oh, that’s strange,” my mother said, dismissively, “I really like your makeup. So subtle. You can hardly tell you’re wearing it at all.”

Even through his makeup, Simon’s cheeks reddened immediately.

“Oh, thank you,” he said weakly.

“Now tell me truthfully,” she pressed on, “Did you put it on yourself, or did Rachel help you?”

“By myself,” Simon almost whispered in reply.

“Well done!” she exclaimed, “You wouldn’t mind giving me a little demonstration?”

“I don’t have my kit with me,” he replied.

“You can use mine,” she said and started to empty the contents of her purse on the coffee table.

Simon watched the growing plethora of cosmetics with apprehension.

“These are really not the shades I would use,” he said.

“No matter, you can wipe it off later if you really don’t like it,” she said.

Simon was looking more and more nervous.

“If we can postpone this, Angela,” he said, “I would be more than happy to give you a full demonstration some other time.”

“Oh for crying out loud, Simon,” my mother raised her voice, “All I’m asking is for you to show me how you do your makeup. I’m not being unreasonable, am I? Unless, perhaps, what you’ve just told me isn’t true and you didn’t do your makeup by yourself after all.”

“I did do my makeup,” he said softly.

“Then what exactly is the problem here?” she persisted, “We’ve already established that you are wearing makeup, and no one else will see you.”

Without waiting for his answer, she pushed a pack of moist towelettes towards him across the coffee table.

“You can use this to wipe yourself before you start,” she said.

As he was wiping his makeup off his face, she ruffled through the pile of cosmetics, picked out a couple and put the rest away.

“I thought the thick, masculine fingers would get in the way,” she said to Simon, “But you seem to be doing quite okay.”

Not responding to her remark, he deftly worked on his face until he finally presented himself to my mother, now with boldly reddened cheeks, gold tinted eyelids, a heavy coating of black mascara on his eyelashes and lips a glistening crimson red.

“Very nice,” my mother said, “You really did a good job. Quickly too.”

“Thank you,” he shyly replied.

“There’s only one problem,” she said.

“Problem?” he asked worriedly.

“Your pink nail polish doesn’t go well with your lipstick,” she replied.

“Actually, it’s a clear coating,” he mumbled.

“Really?I could swear I could see a distinct shade of pink in it. No matter,” she said and placed her nail care kit on the table, “Rub it off and replace it with something more fitting, please.”

He looked at me, as if hoping that I would tell him not to do it, but I just looked back as disinterestedly as I could without actually shrugging. He waited for another second, then obediently reached for the cotton pads and the varnish removed. My mother watched him attentively remove his nail polish and nodded approvingly when he chose a red shade from the offered bottles.

“When you’re done, could you do mine as well?” she asked him.

“Nails or makeup?” he asked.

Her face flashed with astonished excitement.

“I meant my nails, obviously,” she said, “But now that you’ve offered it, why not both?”

For a brief moment, he looked at her, to see if she was kidding, then focused back on his nails, deflated.

“Sure, Angela,” he said, “I’d be happy to.”

“I never thought that I’d live to see the day when my son in law would be painting my nails and doing my makeup,” my mother said as Simon carefully drew a line with the black eyeliner under each of her eyes, “Much less that he would be wearing the same shades as me.”

Blushing, Simon cringed with embarrassment, but carried on with his work. Helpfully, my mother opened and closed her eyes as he coated her eyelashes with mascara, then puckered up when he opened the tube of lipstick.

“Great job!” she commended him when she saw herself in the handheld mirror.

“Thank you,” Simon said, with a quite earnest looking smile on his face.

“Simon honey,” she said, “Would you be a dear and bring my hairbrush from my bathroom?”

Though he stiffened with fear, he tried not to show it.

“Sure, Angela,” he said.

“Oh. My. God.” she mouthed excitedly at me.

Though I tried to keep a straight face, I couldn’t help but break out in a wide, triumphant smile.

“Just try not to abuse your power,” I said.

“Abuse?” she said with feigned indignation, “I would never. I’m shocked you’re even considering me doing anything else but help Simon find the essence of his masculinity.”

Moments later, Simon was back, awkwardly holding the dark brown wooden hairbrush in his hand.

“Why don’t you brush out my hair while my nails are drying,” she said to him and obediently, he set to work.

“Don’t take too long though,” I said to him, “We need to get going. I told Gloria we’d be there in half an hour.”

“Aren’t we going home first?” he asked, worriedly.

“Why on earth would we do that? It’s completely in the opposite direction,” I replied.

“But I need to reapply my makeup,” he said, shyly.

“You’re the one who didn’t want to carry your handbag,” I said to him, “But seeing that you are wearing both makeup and nail polish, I don’t see why we can’t get going right away.”

“Please, Rachel, I can’t go out like this,” he pleaded.

“The boy has a point,” my mother said, “He looks like a woman in men’s clothes. We should do something about that.”

“See?” Simon said to me.

“Whatever you think of doing, make it quick,” I said to both of them, “We don’t have time for your shenanigans.”

“If you wore a blouse instead of your sweater, no one would look at you twice,” she said to him, “I can lend you one of mine.”

“A blouse?” he whined, “I would much rather just redo my makeup.”

“I’m not sure I have the subtle shades you’re looking for,” she replied, “And even if I did, it would certainly take longer than taking your sweater off.”

“Rachel?” he said, pleadingly.

While I was feeling sympathy for my husband’s humiliation at the hands of my mother, I was also secretly rather enjoying it and couldn’t help but wonder how far my mother would take it.

“I did say to make it quick, didn’t I?” I replied.

Minutes later, my mother was back in the living room with my husband in tow, who was now wearing a black and white patterned knee length chiffon dress, with a high ruffled neckline and long, gauzy sleeves, cinched with a patent red belt, and a matching pair of her court shoes with a two inch heel on his feet. A red satin hairband with a large flower at the side removed any traces of a men’s style from his longish hair.

“Jesus, mom, that goes a bit beyond just a simple blouse, don’t you think?” I said to her.

Though humiliated to the brink of tears, Simon still mustered a told-you-so look at my mother.

“I only offered a blouse because I wasn’t expecting his legs to be shaved,” she said defensively, “Let alone that he would be wearing lingerie and stockings.”

“Fine,” I sighed, “Whatever. Let’s get going.”

“No, please, Rachel, no!” Simon wailed.

“What?” I said to him, “First of all, make sure you don’t start crying and ruin your makeup because we don’t have time for that. I don’t know what you’re complaining about. Obviously, you didn’t have a problem with wearing my mother’s dress a minute ago, so I can’t see what could have possibly changed since then.”

“Hold on a minute,” my mother said and disappeared to her bedroom.

“Now what?” I groaned with exasperation. I was worried that the longer we’d dawdle, the harder it would be to get Simon to actually leave the house.

Thankfully, my mother didn’t take too long to return, with a patent red handbag in her hand. Quickly, she shoved in the cosmetics Simon had used before.

“Here’s your makeup,” she said, handing him the bag, “In case you do cry after all. Not that there is much to cry about, when you’re wearing such a pretty dress like you are.”

“Exactly,” I smiled and held out my right elbow to Simon. Obediently, he clutched it with his left arm, while clutching his handbag with his right, and let me lead him through my mother’s hallway into the great outdoors.