Author's website: http://www.trickster.org/kass/

Disclaimer:

Author's Notes: In response to the makeup challenge at the livejournal community ds_flashfiction. Thanks to Sihaya Black for beta.

Story Notes:

In His Makeup

It's not in my makeup to desire a man. Homosexuals are born, not made, and I am not among their number: my disastrous liaison with Victoria should be proof enough of that.

That's what I told myself when I met the second Ray Vecchio, n Kowalski. However strangely alluring he might prove, a fleeting physical attraction is not the same as genuine desire.

As we worked together, weeks and then months, my heart began making treacherous noises, the gunshot sounds of rotten ice breaking up in spring. I ignored them. Fraternal love is one thing; romantic, erotic, love quite another. Loving Ray in that way was simply not in my makeup.

I would say it aloud, sometimes, alone in my room at night, but the words did not sound convincing. Even Diefenbaker was not fooled.

"You have to face what's really bothering you, son," my father would chide me, and then inconveniently vanish as soon as I'd thought of a proper retort.

I didn't like admitting it, but knew he was right. The real fear was not that my makeup precluded loving Ray, but that his makeup precluded loving me.

The women's world curling championships are this weekend, and Canada's up against the U.S. I could watch them at the Consulate, but ever since Diefenbaker threw up on a visiting dignitary's exceptionally expensive Italian shoes he is persona non grata there, and I would prefer to spend my day off with him. Thankfully, Ray is willing to indulge my curling obsession, as long as I provide food.

We arrive a few minutes early, but I knock anyway. The bagels are still warm in their paper bag, and Diefenbaker is impatient to steal whatever tidbits he can muster.

Ray opens the door, dressed but hair still mussed from sleep. As I bustle around his kitchen with the bags -- bagels, cream cheese, capers, salmon, hardboiled eggs, sliced tomato -- he puts a kettle on for tea. I glance over and the sight of him registers: he is wearing eyeliner. A hint of new possibilities curls in my belly.

I am too startled to pretend not to be looking, and he catches me. Leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. His chin is raised slightly: a hint of defiance.

The silence is awkward, so I state the obvious. "Ray. You're wearing makeup."

"Went dancing last night," he says, as if that's an explanation. "Stella used to dig the eyeliner, when we were first going out..."

An image of Ray dancing in tight jeans and black t-shirt, eyes glittering and head tossed back, floats across my mind's eye. I push it away; whatever tantalizing possibilities the eyeliner might suggest, he's just reminded me of the very reason his interest in me is an impossibility.

"Hey," he says softly. Apparently my daze has gone on too long; the defiance has gone out of his posture, and his expression is warm with concern. "Does it -- look, I didn't mean to freak you out, I can go wash --"

He makes a jerky move towards the bathroom, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. "No, I..." I inhale as deeply as I can (fresh bread, salmon, a hint of Ray's deodorant) and make myself keep speaking. "I like it."

My hand is big and pale against his charcoal-grey sweatshirt. His arm is warm even through the cloth. I drag my eyes up from my grip to his face.

His eyes are rimmed in dark blue kohl, smudged but distinct. His beard stubble glints faintly. Ray is smiling, and although he is the same familiar Ray I have known all this time, there is something new behind his eyes.

Perhaps the situation is not as hopeless as I had believed.

Desiring me may be in his makeup after all.

(640 words)

End In His Makeup by Kass: kass@trickster.org

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