I’m still thinking about the lipstick as I start taking my clothes off for him. It goes clothes, hair, mascara, lipstick, perfume, every time he brings me down to his place. The cottage, he calls it. “Like in Beatrix Potter. You ever read that?” He always does that, the thing with the references. He calls my lipstick Monroe Red. “Like in Some Like it Hot. You ever watch that?” “Um, yeah, probably?” “Hmm.” He smirks like he can already feel Monroe staining his dick. “Hot.” And from then my lips were riper than cherries, every time we met. I’ve started keeping the lipstick in my bag. You know. Just in case. She’s recently been joined by a ruby ring. Which, by some coincidence, had appeared in my tote two days after someone lost a g-stringsomewhere on campus. Good thing a different someone found it. Lipstick must be my lucky charm.…