Graphic by Kayla Otero
The pink room comforts them. It conjures memories of first kisses under the boardwalk, tentative yet sweet, mingled with remnants of watermelon taffies and pink lemonade. Their biggest concern was if their cotton candy was spun to pink, crystallized perfection. Brings them back to balmy summer days spent near the sea, wedged somewhere between the Hamptons and the graveyard of beached boat shoes. Left to rot on pristine beaches, they probably just bought another pair. They grew up bathed in fresh ocean air, seaweed mixed with the tantalizing tang of money. A far cry from the backwash of New York and Jersey waters that eventually trickled down to Ocean City beaches. You’d think it was a different ocean. Adrift in my thoughts, I might float for hours if it weren’t for the arrival of our first customer.
Throwing our pink doors open like a parting of the seas, Queen Anne of Lace struts in. Her satin pantsuit and matching mask rustle in the blast of the air conditioner. Though, behind rose-colored lenses, I imagine she can practically see the salt-laden ocean breeze tempting her back to her maiden days.
Anne of Lace. At least that’s what it says on her patient chart. Right below her blood type, pixelated hazel eyes stare back at me, reminding me of my mother’s, gentle but constantly shifting. I think I’ll call her Lacy. We don’t know our customers’ real names, a matter of privacy, my manager told me when I first started here.
You gotta remember to forget or you’re fucked. They don’t pay you to know ‘em. No connections. No trace left behind. That’s the name of the game, Shortcake. No names.
Another day, another God complex. In her pre-programmed rose glasses, Lacy sees the world as she dreams it, one in which she is the axis it rotates around. The glasses are temporary for now, but soon will become permanent. Like looking through water, reality will begin to warp. First in ripples, then in waves, before it is obscured completely. I hope they can swim.
Lacy marvels at our lush, pink decor. She can positively see the Tchaikovsky swirling before her rose-clad eyes and taste the Botticelli, rich like cheesecake. Apparently it ages well. And my, what is that divine floral essence?
If only she could see what the office really looks like. How the brown wallpaper bubbles in the middle and begins to peel like an infected scab. Sometimes I think of how good it would feel to grab the torn edge and peel and peel until the room unraveled, exposing its rotted bones. But then, I think of the bile and the filth that would ooze from the open wound and how I would be left to clean it up. I don’t know if my mop could handle it.
I wish she could smell the delicate fragrance of the little plant in the corner, but it will never bloom. Instead, she happily drowns in the cloying, sweet scent of falsities which threatens to suffocate me. She will never know what it feels like to stutter in the shadows and desperately lean towards a sun that will never shine on you. Leaves wither and wilt and the crooked plant leans on the window in quiet resignation. I slouch next to my plant tucked away in this small little room. I can’t disclose the location. It’s invite only.
“Welcome to La Rose Lounge. Damask Rosé spritzer?”
“Don’t mind if I do. I’m positively famished.”
“That’s totally normal. Fasting is standard procedure before the transformation. Many of
our clients find it enlightening.” My hand still offering the drink.
“I must say it has done wonders for my figure. You really ought to try it sometime.”
One sip in. “Oh, what a lovely flowery note! Just exquisite. But what’s that savory taste?
It feels more earthy, more poignant.”
“Ah, that’s our signature drink. Can’t give away all of our secrets. Just a moment and the
doctor will be with you.”
Three sips in and the first ripples begin to invade her field of vision. A dreamy calm washes over her. Finally, she stops talking. Once she finishes the drink she will be almost prepped for the procedure and I can go back to willing my plant to life.
The doctor’s stilettos puncture the stillness that enveloped the room. In her easy manner, she reminds Lacy about how she will administer the Beyond 20/20 Awakener, our most popular treatment. Since 2020 and the pandemic, this treatment has continued to gain popularity among those in the know, like yourself, who wish to return to sweeter times. The procedure will allow you to see the world of your dreams and shape your view of reality. With these state-of-the-art glasses, if you can imagine it, you can live in it. Think of it as augmented reality, only a little more permanent. It can be reversed, but I’ve yet to meet someone who wants to return to life pre-rose.
She gently guides Lacy, who seems to be floating on a cloud, into the operating room. A few minutes pass and I water my plant, whisper words of encouragement, and scroll through our upcoming appointment list. By the sounds of Lacy’s shrieks of delight, the operation is now underway. Better turn up the Tchaikovsky. I think I’ll put on Swan Lake.
Emerging just in time for the coda of Act 3, Lacy waltzes across the floor. Spinning in increasingly dizzying circles, she is in a world of her own. Floating high above us all and our dirty-even-when-clean floor, I wonder what she will do next.
“Oh, well the world is simply wonderful. Just wonderful. Especially right now. Maybe I’ll rent a private island for my friends and family or invest in the next lunar project. Why not do both actually? So many possibilities. Just wonderful. And I cannot get over that pink drink you gave me earlier. I simply must have some more.”
“Of course. That can be arranged. A little refresher for the road.”
But first, I must attend to the most glamorous part of the job: cleanup and the mixing of our signature concoction. I scrub down the room, wipe the residue from the walls, and light another petal scented candle. Then, I carefully carry two unblinking eyes in a small ceramic dish to the drink container. Dump them in. Hazel, how pretty. I watch them sink to the bottom. The eyeballs are left to macerate and mix with the others. They congeal and wait, preserved for a retrieval that never comes.
In a martini glass we bought in bulk from Greg’s List, I carefully dispense the frothy sweet liquid, wondering if it’s saccharine nature will be enough to rot even the strongest teeth to their core. Too sweet for consumption. One final sugary smile is exchanged before I send her on her way.
Farewell, Queen Anne of Lace. I don’t think I’ll see her again. Once they taste the thick syrupy sweetness of our drink and see the world in hues of rose, they can never go back. Reality is never sweet enough.