June's Date

June crossed her legs at the ankle, the soft shimmer of her rose-gold platform stilettos catching the low light of the restaurant. She was seated at a two-top near the window, her table draped in a crisp white cloth, a single tea light flickering between the polished silverware and a delicate glass of rosé. Her pillowy lips, coated in a wine-dark satin finish, pursed slightly as she checked the time on her phone. 6:56 PM. Four minutes early. She liked that. He was the kind of man who valued punctuality, who respected plans. Hopefully.

She adjusted the thin spaghetti strap of her black silk slip dress, enjoying the way it curved lovingly around her waspish waist. The outfit did what she needed: revealed the smooth, shapely line of her legs, which glowed with the subtle sheen of lotion and not a single hair. She hadn’t shaved in over a year. No one had. No one needed to anymore. Not after the second glitch.

That was the one that took the hair—all of it. The beards, the fuzz, the rough patches on knuckles. Gone. It made things easier, she had to admit. Just like the pillowy lips, the feminine flirtation in everyone’s voices, the constant presence of sexy lingerie, and the towering heels that clicked across every floor. It was all strange at first. But now it was simply the air she breathed.

Her ex had hated it.

He wore the panties. He wore the bra. What else could he do? Resistance wasn’t just futile; it was irrelevant. June had never cared that he was soft and smooth beneath her in bed, his chest in lace, his moans breathy and sweet. But he hadn’t seen it that way. He’d flinched under the weight of his own fragility, blamed her when he couldn’t stay hard, as though her gaze somehow deflated him.

Then he left. And she—she stayed. She mothered. She wore her heels to the grocery store. She packed lunches for Suzie and Alex, helped them apply their first coats of lipstick when the rules of reality made it impossible not to. To them, it wasn’t strange. It was life.

She sipped her rosé, thinking about the man she was waiting for. His profile pictures had caught her attention immediately. He didn’t shy away from the changes. He flaunted them. There was one shot of him in a pink silk babydoll, sprawled on his bed like a doll waiting to be played with, lips pouted and glossed to perfection. She’d stared at that photo more times than she cared to admit.

The restaurant was abuzz with flirtatious chatter. Everyone’s voices trilled with that unmistakable tone—lilting, breathy, naturally coquettish. Even the gruffest men had been unable to resist. Now everyone spoke with a flirt in their throat.

The door opened. Her date.

He was tall, with thick arms hugged by a lacy mesh shirt that did nothing to hide the pink satin bra beneath. His high heels—fuchsia stilettos with gold chain accents—clicked decisively against the tile. His pillowy lips were painted a sultry mauve. He carried himself with a grace that had become standard, even in someone who once might have lumbered. He caught her eye, smiled, and the world briefly stopped.

Then it happened.

A pause. Not quite silence, but a slow, syrupy moment where reality held its breath.

It wasn’t like the other glitches. This one was subtler.

She blinked. Nothing looked different. But she felt it. Everyone did. Around her, heads tilted, lashes fluttered. A shared confusion. A soft hum of awareness. Then, she looked down.

There it was. Spread across her table in a flawless arc: makeup. Full kits. Foundations in every tone. Eyeshadow palettes with glitters and mattes. Lip pencils, blushes, contour sticks, brow gels. A mirror on a dainty silver stand. Brushes—dozens of them. Sponges. Tools. Bottles labeled in gilded cursive.

Her date reached the table and sank gracefully into his seat.

"Oh thank God this is here," he breathed, already reaching for a primer.

June didn’t question it. She couldn’t. Her fingers were already moving. Her dainty, hairless hands with their pearl-glossed nails swept expertly over the surface, selecting her products like a woman possessed. Like a woman home.

A tiny, satisfied sigh escaped her. The makeup responded to her touch as if she’d always known what to do. A bit of cream on her wrist, dabbed with her ring finger, smoothed across her cheekbones. A sweep of bronze at her temples. Her date began lining his eyes with a delicate hand, his pinky arched instinctively.

All around them, the restaurant had transformed. Every table was a vanity. Every person a devotee.

At the booth beside them, a father with two k1ds leaned forward in his blazer and garter belt, applying a shimmering champagne shadow to his lids with remarkable focus. One of his sons had a tube of gloss and was carefully applying it to his younger sibling’s lips. There was no awkwardness. No laughter. Just grace.

Her date blinked up at her through a frame of long, curled lashes. "You do contour like a goddess."

June smiled and laughed, a sound that trilled upward like champagne bubbles. "Flatterer. You're going to make me ruin my mascara."

He reached for a bottle of liquid highlight, pouring a drop onto the back of his hand. The light caught the shimmer like sunlight on water. "Let me do your nose."

She turned toward him, obedient and trusting, and he leaned forward, brushing the tip of her nose with a fingertip so gentle it made her shiver. Her lips parted, her breath hitched. His pillowy lips smiled, and her stomach flipped.

Their hands were no longer just tools. They were art.

As they finished, June leaned back and examined herself in the mirror. She looked immaculate. The kind of perfection that demanded worship.

Her date looked back at her. Both of them, dazzling.

"So," he said with a wink, his voice high, breathy, and utterly charming. "Should we order dessert first or make each other wait for it?"

She bit her glossed lower lip and reached across the table, her hand grazing his. The contact was electric.

"Let's be bad."

The world kept spinning, heels clicking, voices fluttering, faces dazzling.

It was a new world.

Again.