Halfway There by Aubrie Elliot

mustache too?”
    â€œI don’t have a mustache. Why are you being mean?”
    â€œI wasn’t being mean. I got this wax kit and I want to try it out.”
    â€œWhy me?”
    â€œBecause you take pain so well.”
    â€œWe both know I suck at pain.”
    Ellen smiled. It was a little scary. She was a little scary because she was already taking all the stuff out of the closet. I was trapped. I wasn’t going to get out of this.
    â€œOkay, I have to plug in the bowl to heat the wax. This is going to be so cool! Don’t be scared, honey. It’s going to be okay.”
    Ellen pulled me close and nuzzled my neck, then pulled back. It was weird.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œBullshit.”
    â€œUh, you smell different. Musky or something.”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about. I took a bath this morning. Deodorant and everything.”
    Ellen looked down and started stirring her witch’s brew. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. I had noticed my new aroma too. It was musky, like dry wood and wet moss. I had tried different soaps, new deodorants, better perfume. Some stuff made a dent, but nothing really lasted. I hadn’t counted on someone else noticing.
    â€œOkay, we’re ready.” Ellen held up the stick, its end swallowed in thick, steaming goo. She waved it at my lips. I pulled back.
    â€œStand still, silly.”
    I stood still. It was hot and sticky. Kind of nice, actually. It had a strange effect I was beginning to explore and maybe even enjoy when Ellen pushedtwo cloth strips on either side of my upper lip and rubbed. We stared at each other. We stared at each other deeply, like two fighters pacing in a ring—one wary and the other triumphant. Her eyes twinkled.
    In one quick motion her hand came up and a strip came off my lip. I fell to the floor.
    â€œOuch! Shit! Stop! What the hell did you do to me? What the hell was that? No! Get away from me. You’re enjoying this. I hate you!” I was curling into a fetal position when Ellen sat on top of me. I brought my hands to my face. She pulled them away. I shook my head back and forth. She followed, fingered, got hold, and pleasured herself at my expense. She looked at the strips then at me.
    â€œSee, that wasn’t so bad. Pretty cool, huh?” She held out her prize for me to see, which I couldn’t appreciate because there were tears in my eyes. I could only nod. She said something about caterpillars I didn’t quite catch.
    â€œSo, what do you want to do for dinner?” She stood up and began clearing away the portable torture device. I began to make plans to ensure that it got lost permanently.
    â€œLet’s go out. How about a burger?” I figured I could start by hiding the offending paraphernaliawhile Ellen was getting ready.
    â€œI’m good with that.”
    The burger place we frequent is the aforementioned local lesbian haven on Manchester (affectionately, Man-Chaser) Avenue in the Grove, called Novak’s. It’s big, but somehow manages to feel like your neighborhood hangout. You know the place—the place where everyone knows your name. The food is good, and it usually never seems too crowded. This night was no exception.
    We took a table in the bar area, towards the back so we could see everything. The waitress came by. I ordered a beer and so did Ellen.
    â€œYour lip is red,” Ellen said. She wasn’t doing a good job of hiding her glee.
    â€œI suppose if you buy, I would feel better.” I picked up my beer when out of nowhere this image popped into my head: a pair of lips, wet, rosy, kissable lips, cherry Chapstick lips, leaning closer, closer—I took a drink of beer.
    â€œAre you two ordering?” Our waitress was young. She was wearing a tight, little, tee shirt and slim jeans.
    â€œLet me have a Novak’s burger and fries.”
    The tee shirt was nice, very nice. It