I run my hands down my ridiculous Rapunzel costume my dad bought.
Joke’s on him this time because he didn’t realize he grabbed me a kid’s size.
Velvet material barely contains my breasts, suggesting I want to offer way
more than candy and face painting to unsuspecting partygoers. The skirt
rests above my mid-thigh, revealing tan legs and white Converse because
this princess wears comfortable shoes. Screw heels and being a royal pain
in the ass who needs to be protected by a pretty prince.
No thank you. I’d rather save the day in sneakers.
I ditch the sour attitude once I arrive at the party. Face painting can be a
cool gig, letting me show off artistic talents I tamper down into nothing
nowadays.
See, I’ve loved art ever since I picked up a paintbrush at two years old
and decided to paint all over the canvas stools in our kitchen while under
the influence of too many Bob Ross episodes. My dad wasn’t amused when
he sat on wet paint and rocked an imprint of a sunflower on his ass. I’d love
to say an artist was born that day, but my dad didn’t support my creativity
as anything more than a hobby.
So now, instead of pursuing a degree in anything art related, I’m forced
to attend a college tailored toward business degrees.
I almost fall asleep thinking about it.
But I want to make my dad happy because he never lets me down.
Blame the daddy’s girl in me. He does so much, playing both a mother and
father, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable it makes him.
At least I can create mini masterpieces on everyone’s faces today. I
choose different themes for each person because I’m not a basic bitch. I’ve
never been wired that way, ever since my dad bought me a Star Wars
backpack instead of a princess one because no daughter of his believes in
fairy tales.
I scroll through my phone to pass the time. Kids move on to the bounce
houses, no longer amused with the clown or me. Said party entertainment
sends me sly grins across the lawn, weirdly making phallic motions with his
balloon animals while mouthing for me to call him.
Someone leans against the table where I spread out my art supplies. My
eyes trail his jean-clad legs before they land on golden arms crossed over a
firm torso. Tense muscles pull against the black fabric. I hold my breath as
my eyes meet two icy blue ones, the color of melting glaciers in the Arctic.
I’m an artist, not a poet.
