When she opened the door, I could see she was dressed for work. She had pulled her red frizz away from her face, almost severely, and had put on makeup—a ton of it, eyeliner and mascara, shadow, blush. Her lips were a glossy orangeed. She wore big dangling silver earrings, and her ensemble of a bulky black sweater, tights, and heels actually made her look thinner.
A less practiced hand could have given her a garish effect. But she had done everything just right, and it was so, so Paula that she actually looked pretty.
I almost didn’t recognize her.
But I didn’t tell her that. Instead, I said, “You look hot.”
She reached out and pinched my cheek. “Thanks, babe.” She left the door standing open as she bustled about the apartment, checking JoAnne’s water bowl, hunting for her keys, findin
