Shannen Camp - The Breakup Artist

It was a little after four o’clock by the time I finished with my shower, hair, and makeup and I was ready to get into costume. As I pulled the short jean skirt on, I didn’t feel the same way I always felt when dressing like someone else. I almost felt a sense of self that I hadn’t experienced since I was little like I was actually doing something just for me and not just for a client. I quickly shook these thoughts from my head, however, knowing they led to dangerous territory that my future college education couldn’t afford to explore.

Looking myself over in the mirror I had to admit I actually looked pretty good. With my blonde curly hair and the neat, dark makeup, I looked like a mix between a ’50s actress and a rock star. The effect was nice, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back. As much as I wanted to whip out my paint set and get to work on a very round, very pink, colorful expressionist piece, I refrained, deciding that I didn’t want to show up for the date looking like something Jackson Pollock had gotten a hold of.

With three hours to go until the blessed event began, I went over some ideas in my head. I figured I could talk to him for a bit, strictly for professional purposes of course, before getting to Claire. I could ask why they broke up, put some doubts into his head about his decision, suggest that maybe she missed him a little, and even plant the idea of getting them back together right in his subconscious. It shouldn’t really be that difficult, in all reality. It was the job I normally did, just in reverse.

With that obstacle out of the way, I tackled another difficult decision. Should I eat before I went on the date? Eight o’clock was a bit late for dinner, but what if he waited to eat so he could take me out somewhere? Or even worse, what if he didn’t, and my growling stomach gave away my pathetic assumption that we would be getting dinner? What on earth would we do if we didn’t get dinner? Why were we starting this date so late? Did dates normally start at eight o’clock?

My head was swimming with questions, and I didn’t have the desire to answer any of them. All I wanted to do was get this date over with and accomplish my goal so I wouldn’t have to be confused about my feelings or my future in this career anymore. It seemed as though things had been going downhill ever since I’d taken on this new job. It was almost like someone was trying to sabotage what I did for a living. Of course, that was probably just the paranoia talking. The paranoia and the hunger.

I don’t really remember what I did for those three long hours while I waited for David to appear on my doorstep, but I’m pretty sure it involved alphabetizing all of the CDs clients had given to me and then categorizing them by genre. I had a vague determination to make my life easier and thought that this would be the perfect way to get into character quickly for my various jobs.

At eight o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang. I let out a little gasp, the kind you emit when you watch a scary movie and you just know something is going to pop out of that dark alley and yet it gets you every time. I had actually been watching the clock, and it was a welcome shock when the doorbell sounded just as eight o’clock flickered to life on the digital screen. I stood up quickly and looked myself over in the mirror to make sure my makeup hadn’t migrated down my face into a pool of black under my eyes. Everything seemed to be in order, and I looked just as good as I had three hours earlier when the epic CD organizing had begun.

I snatched my black leather purse from my bed and headed down the hallway to the front door. We didn’t have one of those front doors with glass in them so that the people outside can awkwardly see you approaching from a distance, and right now, I was happy for that. For all David knew, I was taking my sweet time because I wasn’t really that interested. I tiptoed to the peephole so that it wouldn’t sound like I had walked up to the door, only to stop for some odd amount of time. Looking through the little opening, I saw him standing there in all his glory. The porch light shone down on him, making him look like an angel, which I’m sure is a pretty cheesy comparison, but at that moment it worked quite nicely. He ran his fingers through his hair like he had when I’d been sitting next to him. There was just something about guys doing that-it gave them some sort of unspoken confidence in my eyes, like they were on top of the world and had everything. It seemed like the only thing they could think of to complete their perfection was running their fingers through their hair. (Because that logic makes complete sense.)

Finally, after what may have actually been an hour of peering at David through this little hole and seriously considering turning right around and going back to my room, I opened the door. He looked mildly surprised, but proud of himself. I assumed the pride was for finding my address and my phone number when I didn’t have any friends. He looked me up and down for a moment with a look on his face that I really couldn’t decipher, and believe me; I’ve seen many different looks on boy’s faces when they look at me. I waited for the inevitable “You look nice” or “I like that skirt on you” or even the more frequent but less acceptable “You look hot,” but instead he simply said, “Ready?”

I nodded dumbly at his question, a little hurt that he didn’t comment at all on my appearance, and a little happy that he might have actually been interested in something other than that. I did, however, have to quickly remind myself that he couldn’t have possibly been interested in my personality since I tragically didn’t have one. Or at least, I didn’t have one of my own. I had whatever personality my clients wanted me to have.

I followed David outside to his car, which was an old little blue thing. I had no idea what kind of car it was, just that it was slightly rusty, which I found a bit shocking. David seemed very well put together and clean, and I couldn’t imagine him driving something that wasn’t as spotless as his sweaters. He opened my door, which was always a good sign, and then took his spot in the driver’s seat. After he had started the car and begun driving in the general direction of the school, I finally spoke, breaking the long silence between us.

“So where exactly are we going tonight?” He looked over at me as if just noticing I was there and smiled.

“I thought we’d grab some dinner. Unless, of course, you’ve already eaten. I mean, it is eight o’clock and everything.” Well at least he wasn’t a complete weirdo. He knew that dinner should definitely be eaten earlier than eight. My stomach growled right on cue, answering his question without me saying a word. “So what kind of food do you like?” he asked me, keeping his eyes trained ahead on the road. That question was completely pointless. He would have been much better off asking what kind of food I didn’t like, because that list was much smaller.

“I like any food that’s edible,” I replied with a grin.

“So no seafood then?” he asked, the smallest of smiles creeping onto his strong features.

“I take it you’re not a fan?” I asked. He pulled a face at my question, scrunching his nose up in disgust.

“All right, no seafood then. What about Italian? Pasta is good at any time of the day.” In fact, I had a particular love of pasta for breakfast, but we didn’t need to let David see my little oddities when this date wasn’t even mine to jeopardize.

“Italian it is,” he said with a small nod. I was half surprised when he kept going straight instead of turning on the road to go to our school. I was definitely on autopilot. This little shock only reminded me of how much I didn’t get out of the house, increasing this date’s potential by a few notches.