Why to Be Wry

In Iowa City with time--so I thought--on my hands, I asked the shopgirl at the Aveda salon to help me choose a lipstick, one just right for me.  We tried reds and browns, which made my mouth look small.  I wiped them off, shaking my head. 

And then she found one.  Soft, cool, bright.  Just right.  Just for me, tailor-plucked for my particular mouth.  I turned it over, hoping for a sexy color name, something lush, some verbal promise swollen with candy or fire engines and slick biteable pleasures, like a fortune in the cookie I hadn't eaten yet.

Fossil, it read.

Not so much time, really.