My mother loved the colour red: a woman of great pride and big lips. She owned an impressive collection of lipsticks that were only red. 575 red lipsticks, to be exact. I remember vividly one summer afternoon when my mother retired into her room to conduct her daily counting of her lipstick collection, when suddenly the house erupted with the woman’s soprano-screams, interlaced with my father’s rhythmic snoring. His nap interrupted, my father jolted in his armchair and dropped his newspaper to the ground. I merely turned my head in the direction of the scream.

“There is a gap in my lipstick collection!” My mother ran out of her room, her mascara bleeding into the pink blush on her cheek.

“A gap?” My father enquired; his disinterest rather conspicuous in his tone.

“Yes. A gap.” The dragon breathed. “Which one of you low-lives has stolen my lipstick #119?”

As the afternoon had passed and lazily rolled into the evening, the elusive lipstick #119 was soon discovered in her vintage can of Amaretti biscuits. Granted: it was an unexpected spot, but considering my mother’s eccentricity, it was nothing but a slight nuance in our format of everyday life. Even the way my mother exhaled her sigh of relief and phoned our neighbour to terminate the search wasn’t an event that hadn’t been witnessed before. However, that night when we had assembled around the maple table for dinner and prepared ourselves to endeavour through my mother’s disquisition concerning the history of lipstick, I began to wonder if I would’ve been any different if my mother had invested as much time in me as she had done in her inanimate cylinders of coloured beeswax. Would I have been more flamboyant? Perhaps more likeable? Or better? I thought back to the nights when I’d refuse to eat together and my mother would nonchalantly shrug her broad shoulders and merely shut the door as she walked away from me.

I stared at her red lips as she articulately pronounced each syllable of every word cascading out of her mouth. How her lips enveloped the start and end of each word; how she intentionally puckered her lips to accentuate the luminosity of her lipstick, and how the light bounced off of that sheen onto my father’s watch, reflecting back into my eye. It was beautiful, I suppose. Beautiful how the light shone so brightly.

The next few days passed as I sunk into my contemplations even further. My mother had hired a carpenter- Mr. Dewitt from next door- to craft her a bigger box to accommodate the six new added members to her family. It was a hot day. I had sprawled myself out in my father’s armchair, fanning myself with the newspaper. My mother had cleared our fridge the previous night and shifted her lipsticks into the fridge to ensure that the tips didn’t soften too much. My mother was about to start complaining about Mr. Dewitt’s lack of punctuality when the doorbell interrupted her and even caused me to straighten my posture. She reddened her lips before opening the door, leaving me in awe of how she hadn’t required the assistance of a mirror to perfect her craft.

“Oh! Speak of the devil! You’re early, Mr. Dewitt: I’m impressed. The men I had hired before never failed to dismay me with their ignorance in regards to time.” She always had a way with words: the master of grovelling. I smirked at the way Mr. Dewitt seemed incredibly pleased with himself, fixing his collar and repeatedly checking his watch. My mother had adopted a frolicsome tone to her steps now that a visitor was here, humming along as she guided him through the house and accentuating each tap of her heels. Mr. Dewitt- a foolish man and oblivious to the fact that he was indeed fifteen minutes behind schedule- merrily danced along with my mother’s sugar-coated lies.

“At this point in my life, I try to lead as minimalistic a life as possible. You see, it’s much easier that way, Mr. Dewitt: less cleaning and more time with your precious family. Don’t you agree, Mr. Dewitt?” I thought to myself: “Why didn’t she become a theatre actress? She would’ve been absolutely marvellous!”

“Yes! One hundred percent! Why don’t you talk some sense into my poor, little wifey? It would make my life a whole lot easier. She keeps on jumping from one hobby to another every month: last month it was collecting handkerchiefs and this month it’s lipsticks…”

My mother halted in her tracks. She placed her white handkerchief onto the maple table and turned around to face Mr. Dewitt.

“What colour?” She had developed this unfamiliar gaze in her eyes that I had never encountered before. I tried to decipher that look. Anger? Indignation? Bitterness?

“I’m sorry?”

“Lipstick, Mr. Dewitt. What colour of lipstick is your wife collecting at the moment?”

“Pink, I think.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright! Though, I must mention: it’s rather an inferior shade of red; fades away quite quickly. Doesn’t last that long- it’s charm.” The ebullience and hubris had ricocheted back into my mother as she continued to guide the charmed carpenter through our household.

It wasn’t until a few hours after Mr. Dewitt’s arrival that he began to work on the box. My mother- a woman of idiosyncratic preferences- had very specific requirements, which demanded a long time to detail across to the carpenter, who I suspect had difficulty acclimatizing to this new, unmatched client of his. After explaining every demand to him, my mother left the office where Mr. Dewitt would be working and came to me- an occasion that takes place quite rarely.

“Tea. Mr. Dewitt. Now.” Impressed by my mother’s ability to deliver a message in such contradictory mannerisms, that being wonderfully elaborate and painfully short, I escorted myself to the kitchen. Though, I couldn’t complain: she was economical with her words when it need be. I pondered on the thought of making her a cup of tea as well, but I wasn’t familiar with the kind of tea she desired on Saturdays.

“Mr. Dewitt, your tea.” I placed it on the table next to him.

“Thank you, Mrs…” It was apparent that he was expecting my mother. I softly smiled at him, knowing that my mother’s flamboyance was difficult to compete with.

“My apologies, Mr. Dewitt. I suppose that you weren’t really expecting my services.”

“Well…the thing is…how shall I put it? I didn’t even know that the woman had a daughter.” He laughed, exposing his cigarette-stained teeth. I always overheard his wife complain about her husband’s terrible habit of smoking to my mother.

“May I offer you a cigarette, Mr. Dewitt?” He seemed to be slightly taken aback at my proposal.

“Your mother won’t mind, would she?”

“Oh, absolutely not! In fact, she would be delighted if she knew that I willingly offered to spend my time taking care of a visitor.” He simply nodded and turned back to sandpapering the block of wood.

No one smoked in our house. (My mother was adamant that the smoke would damage the pigment of her lipsticks, but she held that conviction about many other things.) And thus, there were no cigarettes in our house. However, I couldn’t abandon my responsibility to our visitor and not carry out my duty to its completion. I sat back down on the armchair, trying to find ways that I could fetch this man a cigarette. “I could use my pocket money to buy a back”, I thought to myself. “But then how would I get rid of the whole pack?” So, soon enough my first idea was dismissed. “I could tell Mr. Dewitt that we are out, but then what if he thinks I’m just not being hospitable to him?” I couldn’t afford to taint my mother’s name like that.

      I continued my deep rumination in regards to my new mission and had come across many courses of action that I could’ve taken; however, none allowed for a perfect execution. It wasn’t until I cast my thoughts back to the yellow-teethed Mr. Dewitt that I stumbled upon an achievable stratagem.

Everyone lay almost motionless amidst the humdrum of a hot, sticky afternoon: my mother elaborately fanning herself in her room, my father occupied by the comic strip at the back of a cereal box, and Mr. Dewitt looking for a way to sneak in a nap. The momentary silence was beautiful as all remained occupied within their minds, battling a transitory, afternoon existential crisis. I couldn’t bear to squander that opportunity. I went to the dustbin next to our kitchen sink and recovered a small box that my mother had discarded earlier that morning. Laying the box open on the table, I opened the fridge and arbitrarily plucked out a lipstick like one plucks out a rose petal. I warmed it against my hands and placed it in the pink box.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dewitt.” I could immediately tell that she also smoked as it was the smell that was the most welcoming factor, and not the actual hostess. She stared at me blankly, half hiding behind the door.

“I’m the daughter of the lipstick collector next door.” I mentioned the defining factor of my identity and only then did she step a little closer to me.

“Oh! I love your dress; it’s so beautiful!” Each word she spoke was accompanied by a whistle as the air escaped between the gaps of her teeth.

“Thank you. I actually came on behalf of my mother.” I internally cringed at how Mrs. Dewitt straightened her posture at the mention of ‘my mother’. “She had something she wanted to give you.” I handed her the pink box and awaited her reaction as she opened it. Exactly like my mother.

“Oh! Oh! Unbelievable! I…I…my lips aren’t royal enough for this red! I have never been treated with such reverence before!” My mother was right: her pink lipstick did lose its charm rather quickly.

“Mrs. Dewitt, before I go, could you please give me one cigarette? Mr. Dewitt would like to smoke.”

“Of course! I know that your mother prohibits smoking in her household. Good for her! Here you go!” She shoved a cigarette in my hand from her cardigan and closed the door, continuing to fondle her new gift.

We finished dinner rather quickly that night as my mother wanted to assemble her lipsticks in her brand-new box, which she paid Mr. Dewitt a healthy amount of money for. We listened to her daily, regurgitated dinner-time speech about lipsticks and after our meal, my father and I retired to the sitting area whilst my mother walked up to the fridge to retrieve her prized possessions.

The night was cooler than the day and mostly silent- apart from the clicking of my mother’s heels, which had subdued a little ever since Mr. Dewitt had left. My father had managed to find another cereal box to entertain himself and I merely sat on the sofa, intently observing each movement of my mother. The woman walked up to the fridge, conducting each step with such grandiosity as if she were a great performer with the entire world at her feet. She stretched out her napkin into a perfect rectangle (the edges slightly dampened by the sweat from the control of her hands) on our maple table. She pushed a strand of untamed hair that had come loose from her bun behind her ear; her hair was the only aspect of her life that had the liberty to do what it wanted, without an overexaggerated response from my mother. Before opening the fridge, she quickly glanced at her lips to check if the red had faded away or not, which it had, but only by a slight touch. I instantly recognised the look of disenchantment on my mother’s face. Without delaying any further, my mother knelt down to the fridge, belittling her magnificence as she did so, and opened the door of the fridge as if she were welcoming a prince from distant lands into her sad, dismal life. I couldn’t help but smirk. My mother’s hands cradled the collection of red lipsticks as she took them out and placed them on the napkin. I hated how her eyes glistened so beautifully at the reunification with her prized possessions. I tried to recall a time when my mother had loved me so tenderly like that, but all I could conjure up in that empty mind of mine was the distance that had prevailed the most.

The moment of realization stretched out like an ocean of time. My mother placed her index finger (nails painted red) on top of the lipstick at the left-hand corner of her collection. She laboriously ran her finger along the rows of lipsticks as if merrily walking through a maze, until her rhythm was halted by an almost unnoticeable gap. She may have not even noticed if it weren’t for her finger falling into it! She stopped, stepped back, and stepped forwards again like my father’s rocking chair. She zoomed into the gap and waited. It was funny because I could tell how she was expecting the gap to undo itself; I suppose she wasn’t accustomed to disappointment. After a few seconds had passed, my confused mother straightened herself and simply walked into her room. I couldn’t tell whether she sat on the bed or not, or whether she had begun to cry. However, when the atmosphere around us slowly thickened like the lump in one’s throat threatening to choke them, I started to prepare myself for what was to come. I migrated to the seat next to my father, who smiled at me, and hugged his arm tightly as the house erupted with the woman’s soprano-screams.