As a safety measure, I brew a pot of my very best coffee, a blend I make from a select group of beans. The aroma fills the kitchen, the steam of it warming every part of my face with one exception—the spot on my cheek.
Belinda waves a makeup brush in front of her eyes. “If I stare at it too long, it’s like I forget where I am.” She takes a breath and anchors me to a chair, her palm on my head so she can tip my face upward.
“I don’t think you should touch it,” I say.
“Why do you think we went to the drugstore?” She points the makeup brush at some cream foundation and a makeup sponge. “Tools of my trade. I don’t actually need to touch your skin.”
“Just be careful.”
Belinda brushes and dabs, bottom lip caught between her teeth. The spot on my left cheek feels unreal and waxy. I hope it’s
