Evan Fleischer
He was here being supportive on his phone in the corner of the shop, craning his neck to look down at the phone and at none of the makeup on display around him. He should look at the makeup. Make an effort. Yes, he had tried to be a sounding board for a discussion about make-up with his girlfriend as they were heading in, and quickly found himself drowning in information he didn’t know what to do with, but—in the words of Ed Harris in the movie Apollo 13—failure was not an option.
He looked up from his phone for a moment and nearly gasped when he saw a second man in Sephora also on his phone mere inches away. He should have realized that there was a dedicated Boyfriend Corner in Sephora. But shouldn’t the boyfriend corner have chips that played 1980’s guitar riffs whenever he took a bite? (Maybe a distant voice at the end of the riff exclaiming, “Radical”)? He looked around the shop and then looked at The Boyfriend Corner. He concluded he wasn’t asking for much.
The second boyfriend was staring at his girlfriend’s ass. Her ass was worthy of the utmost reflection. He still wished he could date her ass and her ass alone. He had even told her this and had been told that this was weird, that he was rapidly losing aura points, and that he should take her to Sephora to make up for this. He wondered what her ass made of all this. His girlfriend had once teasingly played the song, “I’m The Assman” for him, but he had been offended. He wasn’t a joke, he said, his voice starting to rise. Why does everyone think I’m a joke? Her cat ran underneath the bed and hissed. His girlfriend said nothing.
The third boyfriend in the Boyfriend Corner of Sephora was stuck behind the first two boyfriends and was debating whether or not he should say something to indicate that he was stuck. A tap on the shoulder? A polite “Excuse me?” A more colloquial, “Hey, bro?” But it’s not like he would have anywhere else to go if he were to free himself either. Where would he go anyway? he thought, looking out at the endless aisles. More Sephora?
The fourth boyfriend wondered what he would look like if he put on every single thing in the store. The Armani Silk Foundation. The Hourglass Setting Powder. The Huda Beauty Lip Liner. The Urban Decay Setting Spray. The Kosas Concealer. Khiel's Avocado Eye Cream. Laneige Lip Mask. Valentino Eye2Cheek Blush. Kosas Cloud Mist. NARS Radiant Creamy Concealer. All of it.
The fifth boyfriend had a slightly more nuanced view. He had decided that makeup was for him, too, but found his aesthetic sense stuck less in tints, shades, and hues and more in exclamatory splotches of paint—of the body being less an accumulating tension of lines and more a Joan Miro-like burst of two dimensional color, of dancing Scott McClaren-like animations thumbing their nose at the otherwise traditional way memory became image became camera powder flashing into nothing at all, and as such, not knowing how to pick up the pieces, these things that danced between an open door of freedom leading to forever verdant fields and wait, no, maybe that was just an interruption—he relegated himself and what he felt was his decision paralysis to The Boyfriend Corner.
The sixth boyfriend wondered what would happen if he managed to get the other boyfriends in the boyfriend corner of Sephora to unionize.
The seventh boyfriend in the corner was a boyfriend of pure consciousness. He had transcended not just the situation, not just his body, not just the store, but time and space itself.
“You know,” the first boyfriend said, clenching and unclenching his jaw as if his own skull doubled as some sort of free roaming stress ball. “I think I’m going to try venturing out from here.”
“Bro,” the boyfriends approvingly said. “Good luck. Let us know how it is out there.”
The sixth boyfriend placed a hand of solidarity on the first boyfriend’s shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. “Do you need anything before you go?”
“No, bro. Thank you, though.” The first boyfriend took in a breath and looked out across the expanse of the store. “I think it’s just time to be brave.”
And the brave boyfriend took a step and opened his eyes to the aisles and saw Yogi Bear-themed bandaids from Qatar that were on sale for Valentine’s Day: Habibi Habooboos for my Boo-Boo.
“How was it?” The boyfriends said as the first boyfriend returned. “What did you see?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” the first boyfriend said.
They watched Queer Eye. They watched Heated Rivalry. They wanted to be good boyfriends, wanted to “win,” and maybe there was something in these two programs that could help them figure out why they were in Boyfriend Corner. They watched a video of a professional YouTube reactor reacting to David Foster Wallace’s Brief Interviews with Hideous Men to see if there was something out there that they should avoid.
“Maybe we should start a podcast,” the second boyfriend said.
“Maybe we should detach ourselves from the idea of status altogether,” the seventh boyfriend replied.
“What would you even call that?” Boyfriend number one said as he was lowered into a massage chair. “A multilingual pun? It didn’t feel like one…”
“Guys,” the fourth boyfriend said. “I think the store is closed.”
“If that’s the case, I think we should throw a party,” the third boyfriend said.
“Jesus,” the boyfriends said, jumping in surprise. “We thought there were six of us. Were you there the whole time?”
“What if it was a makeup party?” The fifth boyfriend said.
The seven of them looked at each other and imagined their faces moving like individual frames of a single strip of celluloid racing through a projector again and again. They imagined their heads as Campbell’s Soup Cans, as runway models all making the goofiest faces they possibly could, as the kind of face that would make whoever was talking with their girlfriends turn to them and say, “That guy? You’re with him?” and they would turn and look at the lipstick running from mouth to mouth of these seven like a lasso that had lost its way and turn back to their interlocutor and say, “Yes.”
He looked up from his phone for a moment and nearly gasped when he saw a second man in Sephora also on his phone mere inches away. He should have realized that there was a dedicated Boyfriend Corner in Sephora. But shouldn’t the boyfriend corner have chips that played 1980’s guitar riffs whenever he took a bite? (Maybe a distant voice at the end of the riff exclaiming, “Radical”)? He looked around the shop and then looked at The Boyfriend Corner. He concluded he wasn’t asking for much.
The second boyfriend was staring at his girlfriend’s ass. Her ass was worthy of the utmost reflection. He still wished he could date her ass and her ass alone. He had even told her this and had been told that this was weird, that he was rapidly losing aura points, and that he should take her to Sephora to make up for this. He wondered what her ass made of all this. His girlfriend had once teasingly played the song, “I’m The Assman” for him, but he had been offended. He wasn’t a joke, he said, his voice starting to rise. Why does everyone think I’m a joke? Her cat ran underneath the bed and hissed. His girlfriend said nothing.
The third boyfriend in the Boyfriend Corner of Sephora was stuck behind the first two boyfriends and was debating whether or not he should say something to indicate that he was stuck. A tap on the shoulder? A polite “Excuse me?” A more colloquial, “Hey, bro?” But it’s not like he would have anywhere else to go if he were to free himself either. Where would he go anyway? he thought, looking out at the endless aisles. More Sephora?
The fourth boyfriend wondered what he would look like if he put on every single thing in the store. The Armani Silk Foundation. The Hourglass Setting Powder. The Huda Beauty Lip Liner. The Urban Decay Setting Spray. The Kosas Concealer. Khiel's Avocado Eye Cream. Laneige Lip Mask. Valentino Eye2Cheek Blush. Kosas Cloud Mist. NARS Radiant Creamy Concealer. All of it.
The fifth boyfriend had a slightly more nuanced view. He had decided that makeup was for him, too, but found his aesthetic sense stuck less in tints, shades, and hues and more in exclamatory splotches of paint—of the body being less an accumulating tension of lines and more a Joan Miro-like burst of two dimensional color, of dancing Scott McClaren-like animations thumbing their nose at the otherwise traditional way memory became image became camera powder flashing into nothing at all, and as such, not knowing how to pick up the pieces, these things that danced between an open door of freedom leading to forever verdant fields and wait, no, maybe that was just an interruption—he relegated himself and what he felt was his decision paralysis to The Boyfriend Corner.
The sixth boyfriend wondered what would happen if he managed to get the other boyfriends in the boyfriend corner of Sephora to unionize.
The seventh boyfriend in the corner was a boyfriend of pure consciousness. He had transcended not just the situation, not just his body, not just the store, but time and space itself.
“You know,” the first boyfriend said, clenching and unclenching his jaw as if his own skull doubled as some sort of free roaming stress ball. “I think I’m going to try venturing out from here.”
“Bro,” the boyfriends approvingly said. “Good luck. Let us know how it is out there.”
The sixth boyfriend placed a hand of solidarity on the first boyfriend’s shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. “Do you need anything before you go?”
“No, bro. Thank you, though.” The first boyfriend took in a breath and looked out across the expanse of the store. “I think it’s just time to be brave.”
And the brave boyfriend took a step and opened his eyes to the aisles and saw Yogi Bear-themed bandaids from Qatar that were on sale for Valentine’s Day: Habibi Habooboos for my Boo-Boo.
“How was it?” The boyfriends said as the first boyfriend returned. “What did you see?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” the first boyfriend said.
They watched Queer Eye. They watched Heated Rivalry. They wanted to be good boyfriends, wanted to “win,” and maybe there was something in these two programs that could help them figure out why they were in Boyfriend Corner. They watched a video of a professional YouTube reactor reacting to David Foster Wallace’s Brief Interviews with Hideous Men to see if there was something out there that they should avoid.
“Maybe we should start a podcast,” the second boyfriend said.
“Maybe we should detach ourselves from the idea of status altogether,” the seventh boyfriend replied.
“What would you even call that?” Boyfriend number one said as he was lowered into a massage chair. “A multilingual pun? It didn’t feel like one…”
“Guys,” the fourth boyfriend said. “I think the store is closed.”
“If that’s the case, I think we should throw a party,” the third boyfriend said.
“Jesus,” the boyfriends said, jumping in surprise. “We thought there were six of us. Were you there the whole time?”
“What if it was a makeup party?” The fifth boyfriend said.
The seven of them looked at each other and imagined their faces moving like individual frames of a single strip of celluloid racing through a projector again and again. They imagined their heads as Campbell’s Soup Cans, as runway models all making the goofiest faces they possibly could, as the kind of face that would make whoever was talking with their girlfriends turn to them and say, “That guy? You’re with him?” and they would turn and look at the lipstick running from mouth to mouth of these seven like a lasso that had lost its way and turn back to their interlocutor and say, “Yes.”
Evan Fleischer is a writer, teacher, and editor currently living in Maine. He holds an MFA in Fiction from Emerson College
