TABU

As I’m berating myself over the sorry state of my cosmetics, I discover a lipstick I thought I’d used up. Nearly as slender as a cigarette, the shiny black case still had a tiny reservoir, a doll-sized pot, of delicious elixir for my lips.  I apply some with a tiny white brush. Oh, lipstick, I’m so glad I found you. How many months did we enjoy being together, I showing off your glamorous glow and you soothing my mouth? You made it easier to smile.

I don’t feel bad about keeping something that’s almost gone. I remember Tabu perfume.  It resided in a brown leather case, inside the drawer of the speaker my father built, which was next to the dining room table. I loved to open the drawer and see a deck of cards, some yellow pencils, a package of Double Mint gum and the brown leather case that held the nearly empty vial.  I’d slide it out of its case, unscrew the lid and inhale the roll-on tip.  I was transported to an ancient place I didn’t know the name of. Then, when was seven, I saw The Ten Commandments, and  knew it was Egypt.

The night of Heidi’s slumber party – December 31, 1963, I stroked Tabu on my neck. I packed one of the negligees I’d taken from the model’s dressing room. It was floor length, pale pink. The bodice was fitted, with black embroidery. A black satin bow tied the waist. That silky fabric turned my skinny, fourteen-year-old body into a woman.

I remember standing against the wall, by the piano, in the Schway's  formal living room.  Roger Somebody - football player, had broken his nose - was giving me a hickey. I gazed up at the ceiling. The Ventures were playing on the record player. I was happy and limp, breathing in that spicy Tabu, mixed with young man’s lust. It was marvelous,  being wanted so.  

Anyway, I’m glad I found my old lipstick. The company discontinued it – of course! – so I’ll hold on to it a little longer, occasionally visit and enjoy  whatever memory it may retrieve.