Like a moth to a flame, I wander into the closest Duane Reade. I flutter through the sliding automatic door and inhale a deep, cooling breath of air-conditioned relief.
I can’t think of anything I need to buy. Then, I can’t think of anything I want to buy, at least not from Duane Reade.
I meander into the beauty aisle and pretend to shop for nail polish.—Nail polish is aspirational. One day I’ll stop biting.—The Essie Summer 2011 collection catches my eye, and I fly toward the display. Puns anyone?
Brazilliant is a feisty orange with a shimmery finish. Absolutely Shore, a soft seafoam green. Too Too Hot, a fiery red that I honestly can’t distinguish from Meet Me at Sunset, which is suspiciously similar to Brazilliant. I see what’s happening here, and I let the scene play in my imagination.
INSIDE A CONFERENCE ROOM. THE FLOOR-TO-CEILING WINDOWS REVEAL A VIEW OF MANHATTAN FROM THE TOP, PROJECTING THE CITY’S POWER INTO THE SPACE.
PRESIDENT OF ESSIE NAIL POLISH
Ok, team. We need to name the orangey-red color. Who has the best pun?
EXECUTIVE #1
I think we should play the day-to-night angle. How about Meet Me at Sunset?
EXECUTIVE #2
This color is all about being bold. How about Too Too Hot?
EXECUTIVE #3
The name needs to be fun. Festive, you know? I think we should name the color Brazilliant.
(The three executives begin to argue, each in defense of their pun. Thier exact words are inaudible.)
PRESIDENT OF ESSIE NAIL POLISH
I’ve heard enough! I love all of these puns! Someone email the product department. We’re gonna need two more shades of orangey-red. Nice work, team. Meeting dismissed.
I decide that Brazilliant is my favorite, and the game is over.
It’s been thirty-seven minutes since I left my desk. I’ll go back. But not for another twenty-three. I want to leave Duane Reade, but really, where am I going to go? The City has no energy today. She is fried. You can practically hear the humidity. It sizzles in the streets.
Following the soft touch of the conditioned air, I drift deeper into the drug store. Along the back wall, next to the pharmacy window, I discover four empty chairs. I shrug to the logic of three other chairs, plenty of room for a few fellow New Yorkers.
There is a magazine display thoughtfully placed within a few feet of my seat. I consider my options and select the August issue of Glamour. Heidi Klum is on the cover next to the headline, The Jeans That Make You Look Instantly Slimmer! I roll my eyes. Despite Glamour’s promise to divulge the denim of my dreams, I remain skeptical that any of the 859 featured pairs would fit. My legs are too short. My hips are too wide. Give me a break, Heidi Klum.
I flip through the pages in search of something meaningful. I am about to give up when my eyes focus on “love.” The word is inviting. I want to know more.
I zoom out on the page. It’s my horoscope. Excuse me, Glamourscope (credibility instantly dwindles).—The editors of Glamour Magazine seem to think that “boss-man love” is written in my stars.
Who approved the phrase “boss-man love”? Has Mad Men taught Glamour nothing? In 2011, “boss-man love” is a euphemism for “sexual harassment.” Not to mention, my boss is a woman who doesn’t even notice me.
With a sigh of disappointment, I close the magazine on my lap. Boss-man is so not the love I’m looking for.—Suddenly, I am hopelessly aware of what I desperately prefer to ignore. I am alone.
What does it feel like to fall in love? Does it really happen like they say, where and when you least expect? For example, at a Duane Reade pharmacy, while you are not waiting to be seen.
