Lipstick
London Fog, #004. It was a secret I stole from a girl in the bathroom of the Tate Britain when she had her back turned, the colour catching the corner of my eye as vividly as cherries in July, or the bright burn of a scab teased to distraction. I had never seen an actual fog in red. When I first met fog, it sucked the life out of everything, leeching colour to store in its hollow bones. Even more so for a London fog—gloomy, full of wraiths and phantoms. The lipstick was the kind of shade that would have made Mum roll her eyes and Dad raise an eyebrow—isn’t it too much of an evening colour? It lived in a case that you just knew was expensive, and smelt like crushed roses. It glinted with the faintest hint of a dream, promising that if you just put it on, everything in your life moving forward would be effortless, softly glamorous.
As expected, the price of the lipstick nearly made me cry. Instead I saved a swatch on my phone, and trawled all the drugstore brands to get as close as I could. I became an expert in cool and warm tones. This one leaned too far orange, the other had too many flecks of gold. When I finally found the right shade, it was in the closing down sale of a Watsons in Kuala Lumpur where the shop girl looked at me as if she meant to ask—are you sure this is going to fit with your skin tone?—when really she meant—I don’t think you can pull it off. I bought three for the price of one and ripped off the labels. In their plain black tubes they looked like stiff leeches at the bottom of my bag, swallowing what little light was let in.
In primary school, we had a young substitute music teacher who loved her dark shades of plum, passionfruit skins. A bruised thundercloud would pass over the earth and in all that time, her lips would seem as if they were cut from the seams of the sky. Corners upturned, looking to return to the rain. A parent complained about the substitute teacher’s lips to one of the other teachers at a parent-teacher conference, one of those held in the school hall, fans buzzing against the oppressive summer heat. But even above the noise, their voices carried. Think of the children! She said. And especially (this said in a lower tone), the boys who would look at her and think that is what a woman should look like. The substitute teacher only had a day left anyway before her time at the school ended, so on her last day, she came in with the darkest shade of purple I had ever seen, and then disappeared from our lives for good.
I thought of her as I swiped the red on in cautious strokes. Shortly after I bought the last three tubes at the closing store, it seemed like the brand had disappeared off the face of the earth. I made sure I only wore it on special occasions, like the kind where I went to a fancy restaurant by myself and ate like no one was watching. Sometimes I ignored the rows of spoons and forks and used my fingers, stuffing cream and rich sauces into my mouth until they dribbled out the corners and smeared my lipstick. Each finger inevitably ringed by a cherry-flushed halo. Men didn’t dare to meet my eyes. Women stared. Sometimes I just stuck my tongue out at them, as pink and raw as the surrounding lips.
My first lipstick was nowhere as daring. I bought it with a bunch of giggling school friends after our evening tuition classes, when we were waiting for the MRT and thought that by delaying going home, we could somehow delay the coming of the next day. Being the good girls that we were, we didn’t dare to try on the samples provided, seeing that our parents always warned us against the hidden diseases that were lurking on these moist, wet things that we put on our faces. It didn’t stop us from swatching our arms with shades of pink, red, and purple that looked like open wounds under the fluorescent lighting. Out of a desire to stay connected—to feel like this moment was special—as if we were going to be friends forever—we all bought the same shade of lipstick. We promised to wear it and think of each other. It was a dusty pink like the gentle flush of alcohol teasing at our cheekbones, the colour of the sunset filtered through a haze of city pollution and rain, the kind of pink that tried its best to capture a faded youth. I still had the lipstick, but when I peered inside, it had hardened into a clay-like substance, leaving a smear of dark earth on my thumb.
On days that I did wear London Fog #004, I kissed every glass I could find that reflected my image back to me. Bus windows were easy targets, and not cleaned very often. I had nearly made a whole line of lip prints on one of the bus windows of my more travelled routes. Shop windows were not safe either. One alluring mannequin could do with some lipstick, I thought. I kissed her goodbye every morning on my way to work, to the annoyance of the shop assistant that tried to preempt me before I could. I kissed my reflection in a half-empty wineglass. I kissed the oil-streaked foil underneath the roasted vegetables for my solitary meal. I kissed my own shadow on the wall, looming large over my frame. I kissed the sea when I visited it—the taste of salt as dark as the colour of my lips.
When I was down to the worn stub of a dying lipstick, I went to a dark, dingy museum tucked away in the heart of winter. It wasn’t a real one, just a tourist trap that claimed to be some famous person’s last resting place. There I stole kisses from a pair of mouldy tortoises, and passed by rooms I couldn’t find my way out of, the house closing in like a maze. There was only one other person there—I made sure she was looking as I reapplied my lipstick in the murky depths of a silver-backed portrait mirror. I capped it slowly, and then left the lipstick directly in front on the table—a secret I could finally pass on.
As expected, the price of the lipstick nearly made me cry. Instead I saved a swatch on my phone, and trawled all the drugstore brands to get as close as I could. I became an expert in cool and warm tones. This one leaned too far orange, the other had too many flecks of gold. When I finally found the right shade, it was in the closing down sale of a Watsons in Kuala Lumpur where the shop girl looked at me as if she meant to ask—are you sure this is going to fit with your skin tone?—when really she meant—I don’t think you can pull it off. I bought three for the price of one and ripped off the labels. In their plain black tubes they looked like stiff leeches at the bottom of my bag, swallowing what little light was let in.
In primary school, we had a young substitute music teacher who loved her dark shades of plum, passionfruit skins. A bruised thundercloud would pass over the earth and in all that time, her lips would seem as if they were cut from the seams of the sky. Corners upturned, looking to return to the rain. A parent complained about the substitute teacher’s lips to one of the other teachers at a parent-teacher conference, one of those held in the school hall, fans buzzing against the oppressive summer heat. But even above the noise, their voices carried. Think of the children! She said. And especially (this said in a lower tone), the boys who would look at her and think that is what a woman should look like. The substitute teacher only had a day left anyway before her time at the school ended, so on her last day, she came in with the darkest shade of purple I had ever seen, and then disappeared from our lives for good.
I thought of her as I swiped the red on in cautious strokes. Shortly after I bought the last three tubes at the closing store, it seemed like the brand had disappeared off the face of the earth. I made sure I only wore it on special occasions, like the kind where I went to a fancy restaurant by myself and ate like no one was watching. Sometimes I ignored the rows of spoons and forks and used my fingers, stuffing cream and rich sauces into my mouth until they dribbled out the corners and smeared my lipstick. Each finger inevitably ringed by a cherry-flushed halo. Men didn’t dare to meet my eyes. Women stared. Sometimes I just stuck my tongue out at them, as pink and raw as the surrounding lips.
My first lipstick was nowhere as daring. I bought it with a bunch of giggling school friends after our evening tuition classes, when we were waiting for the MRT and thought that by delaying going home, we could somehow delay the coming of the next day. Being the good girls that we were, we didn’t dare to try on the samples provided, seeing that our parents always warned us against the hidden diseases that were lurking on these moist, wet things that we put on our faces. It didn’t stop us from swatching our arms with shades of pink, red, and purple that looked like open wounds under the fluorescent lighting. Out of a desire to stay connected—to feel like this moment was special—as if we were going to be friends forever—we all bought the same shade of lipstick. We promised to wear it and think of each other. It was a dusty pink like the gentle flush of alcohol teasing at our cheekbones, the colour of the sunset filtered through a haze of city pollution and rain, the kind of pink that tried its best to capture a faded youth. I still had the lipstick, but when I peered inside, it had hardened into a clay-like substance, leaving a smear of dark earth on my thumb.
On days that I did wear London Fog #004, I kissed every glass I could find that reflected my image back to me. Bus windows were easy targets, and not cleaned very often. I had nearly made a whole line of lip prints on one of the bus windows of my more travelled routes. Shop windows were not safe either. One alluring mannequin could do with some lipstick, I thought. I kissed her goodbye every morning on my way to work, to the annoyance of the shop assistant that tried to preempt me before I could. I kissed my reflection in a half-empty wineglass. I kissed the oil-streaked foil underneath the roasted vegetables for my solitary meal. I kissed my own shadow on the wall, looming large over my frame. I kissed the sea when I visited it—the taste of salt as dark as the colour of my lips.
When I was down to the worn stub of a dying lipstick, I went to a dark, dingy museum tucked away in the heart of winter. It wasn’t a real one, just a tourist trap that claimed to be some famous person’s last resting place. There I stole kisses from a pair of mouldy tortoises, and passed by rooms I couldn’t find my way out of, the house closing in like a maze. There was only one other person there—I made sure she was looking as I reapplied my lipstick in the murky depths of a silver-backed portrait mirror. I capped it slowly, and then left the lipstick directly in front on the table—a secret I could finally pass on.
March / April 2023
Kwan Ann Tan is a writer from Malaysia. Her work has previously been published in The Offing, Joyland Magazine, and Sine Theta Magazine, amongst others. You can find her at or on Twitter @KwanAnnTan
Art: Aiyana Masla. July Pelvis. Watercolor