Photo provided by the author. I wore black lipstick that day and somehow that made him really mad.

A Shoutout to the Man Who Called Me a “40-Year-Old Goth Bitch”

Since when did a little lipstick hurt anybody?

Out of all the customers who frequented my blackjack table over the years, I’m not sure why you stuck in my head. Maybe because it was the day I decided to be done with people who like to shame women past a certain age. I didn’t realize it until you showed up that morning, I guess. You seemed like a nice guy when you came into the bar and sat at my table.

We had a decent conversation, too. You said you were here on business. I chatted along, even if I could tell the only other player at the table didn’t like the volume of your voice. Or how you asked him if he was part of the mafia.

Then you fixated on my black lipstick.

You decided I needed a new nickname.

You kept squinting your eyes at me, your face red as you slammed chips down and muttered to yourself. Your voice grew louder and louder until I asked what you’d said.

“Why are you wearing that?” It wasn’t a simple question.

I disgusted you, and I wasn’t sure why. How was I to know I offended you? Two seconds ago, you were making it rain in my tip jar. You pointed to your lips when I didn’t answer.