Eyebrows
He asked to do my eyebrows.
What a startling request. A man. Should I be so startled? A man. He wants to pay attention to me. He wants to change me. Make me better. Make me beautiful. That is, after all, what is important. For a woman. To be beautiful.
I like my eyebrows the way they are. And that is a lie.
“What?” I say.
“May I do your eyebrows? It will be just a little here and the tiniest bit there. You will be amazed at the difference.”
I don’t know whether to shout back, “How dare you!” or say, “Certainly. May I do yours next?”
Then the thought of his hand placed on my forehead. Inflicting the slightest amount of pain with the tweezers. Brings to mind other possibilities.
I see muscle on a large frame. Soft brown hair all over his chest. I look up into his face. I breathe his breath.
I like my eyebrows the way they are.
I say, “I would love for you to do my eyebrows.”