“The girl you ask to dinner will never show you her true face. Her deep, caramelized skin is carefully concealed beneath layers of formality and mistrust. She runs through her standard list of questions in her head as she is seated across from you, perhaps a glass of wine or a can of beer on your side, and always a simple glass of coke on hers.

How many Black girls have you been with?

What assumptions do you make of my character due to the color of my skin?

And, How have I defied those expectations in ways that make you comfortable or pleasantly surprised?

She is aware of the attention she attracts from others– as are you. She is also aware that you are probably patting yourself on the back for taking a walk on the wild side this time, your first brown-skinned girl now under your belt, like adding some new far-away continent to your list of exotic travels. She is aware that she is not your home, nor you, hers. She didn’t come as herself tonight, something you don’t immediately realize because you believe the mystery is merely a function of the atmosphere.

Her routine is an arduous process, a series of doings and regretful undoings. While you are staring at the perfected version of her seated across from you, she is careful not to disturb the fine baby hairs that lay over the edge between the skin of her forehead and scalp. She is usually careful, but sometimes, she misses a spot. While you venture into the realm of your introductory statements and questions, she is remembering, or maybe thinking, of that same routine. Perhaps she is silently plotting when she will be able to get back to it, if instead of returning to her home tonight, she follows you to yours. She feels guilty if she misses out on this most important step, a day will be incomplete without it; it’s a matter of slathering on a salve she makes by hand to fix what she doesn’t trust has been fixed enough.

The first ingredient is easy enough to come by, but the second ingredient has her wandering in and out of spice aisles in grocery stores, dodging the quizzical glances of aproned employees who don’t volunteer to help. The third and final ingredient is always sitting on the second shelf of her pantry. It’s a stinging miracle worker, it cures her chicken in cold water before she seasons and cooks it. She adds a tablespoon of it to a mixture of thicker-than-sap nectar and pollen-colored powder, and then she is transferring the crystalline goop into vials and droppers, and applying a thick layer of it onto her forehead, chin, and cheeks. The mix will last her a few months if she is careful not to spill any when applying. You are supposed to leave it on for twenty minutes, then rinse, but she leaves it on for two hours minimum, daily. It is one of many tiny overcompensations that have become customary. The undoing will come later, when she trades her homemade mask for a layer of makeup that will worsen her skin beneath, undermining the routine of wellness she has attempted to keep.”