With some force and a sudden jerk the cap flies off,
polish landing everywhere it is not supposed to.
In a fit of frustration I retrieve the acetone and clean the mess
I should not have made in the first place.
I begin again.
Slowly, thoughtfully, reluctantly, I pick up the tiny brush, steadying my hand with slow, calculated strokes.
As my fingers tremble, strokes turn to waves. Clear ripples wrinkle the beds of my nails.
Halfway short of a pair later, the base is imperfectly complete.
I begin again.
The bottle of color is squeezed between my knees as my left hand unscrews the cap, luckily more successful than before. Red is not a forgiving color.
The smooth shiny color glistens on the bristles of the black brush. The polish fills the creases of the wrinkles and hedges against my cuticles. At times it is as though my hand overrides the directions my brain sends to it, flying too much to the right, not enough to the left. With each mistaken stroke, I make a mental note that this error will have to be cleaned.
As the red dries, I become anxious.
The color is wrong.
My nails are all different lengths.
The pink bed of my nail is exposed.
I know bubbles will form.
I cannot paint my right hand with the left one.
The shiny, glistening red fades to mat. Only a clear covering will revive it. The top coat is the saving grace. It blends mistakes, covers unintended creases, and creates an illusion of perfection. The clear dries. Bubbles still form. Polish sticks to the sides of my fingers. Do I begin again? Red is not a forgiving color. I meticulously wipe the sides of my nails, making my right hand look somewhat presentable.
Presentable.
I’ll hide my hands in my pockets tonight, shielding my flawed masterpiece from the scrutinizing eyes of those who effortlessly hold perfection
on their fingertips.