Pop 17

Olive leaned closer to the restroom mirror,

the fluorescent light above flickering as though mocking her nerves.

With a steady hand, she traced her lips with the red lipstick—classic, bold, a shield.

She smacked them together once and whispered to her reflection,

“Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

She knew that sooner or later she has to do this:

Meet the parents.

This will make everything official between her and Tristan.

From her silvery glittered clutch, she drew out the small pill bottle.

Her hands trembled as she twisted the cap.

She turned on the faucet, the water hissing low like a warning.

Just as she tilted the bottle toward her palm—

Three girls in their early twenties burst into the restroom,

their laughter bouncing against the tiles.

One of them jostled Olive’s elbow.

The bottle slipped.

Olive watched in horror as her

pills spilled across the porcelain sink, a white cascade skittering toward the drain.

Gone.

Olive gasped, scrambling, clawing at the slippery beads as they rolled.

She managed to scoop only a handful before the rest vanished with a soft, final gurgle.

She turned, breathless, glaring at the intruders.

The three girls froze under her stare, blank as dolls, as if they hadn’t even noticed what they’d done.

The trio didn’t even notice Olive’s glare.

Two were waging war with their makeup bags, powder flying like battlefield smoke

while the third was married to her phone, thumbs moving faster than her brain ever could.

Olive tightened her fist around the remaining pills, her pulse racing.

Back at the mirror, she counted quickly.

Twenty left.

Not enough for the long haul, but enough to buy her time tonight.

Enough to show Tristan’s parents that she’s deserving of their son.

That she’s…..normal.

Young.

Yes, that’s it, that she’s young and she and Tristan are a perfect dream couple.

At least, for tonight.

Nothing can go wrong.

Even though it always seems in life, everything is always going wrong.

“Here goes nothing.”

She dry-swallowed ten pills.

The world blurred, a heat rushing through her veins.

She gripped the sink as her reflection rippled.

Wrinkles smoothed, hair thickened, cheeks bloomed with color.

In seconds, Olive was twenty again—bright-eyed, skin glowing,

braided hair tied with a pink ribbon.

The girls gasped, too stunned to move.

Then it hit them.

One shrieked, another stumbled back, the third whispered,

“What the hell—” before they all screamed in chorus and fled,

heels clattering down the hallway. Olive barely spared them a glance.

She brushed past, chin high, as though she had every right to exist in this skin.

When she entered the restaurant, heads turned.

Conversations paused.

Youth radiated from her like perfume—impossible to ignore.

A waiter rushed forward, bowing slightly as he slid out her chair at Tristan’s reserved table.

Olive sat gracefully, her heart drumming against her ribs.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Tristan:

Running late. Mom has some “girl” issues.

Olive frowned. Girl issues? At seventy-something?

What the hell was that supposed to mean—hot flashes, an ectopic pregnancy?

She scoffed, then quickly checked her reflection in her pocket mirror.

Still perfect. Still young.

Tonight is a perfect evening. What possibly could go wrong?

The waiter approached. “Something to drink, miss?”

“A Zinfandel. Just a sip or two,” Olive murmured. Anything to steady her nerves.

As the glass arrived, her thoughts drifted—dangerously, involuntarily—to Petals.

Yesterday, she’d watched the big woman shuffle nervously toward Mrs. Margarette and her clique,

who were sipping tea like they owned the air itself.

Usually the residents of the Nursing home avoids the lounge area when Mrs. Margarette decides to hang out for tea.

It’s just that, she’s too much, too complicated, and too—big to fail.

Power. That’s what she hold against everyone.

Not to mention that her dead husband left her with everything.

Rumor has it, she’s the one who owned the entire Nursing home.

She bought it just to make a point to her daughters who couldn’t care less as to what happens to her.

In the Nursing home, she found her world.

And her, surrogates which is more like her Nursing home slaves.

“Petals,” Margarette had sighed, “if this is about the zoo trip, I’ve told you—there’s no room.

You’ll take up three, maybe four seats. The bus can’t carry… all that.”

The table had erupted in genteel laughter, the kind that cut sharper than knives.

Petals, eyes wet but voice small, held out a necklace.

A vintage piece, pearls and silver, trembling in her hand.

“It was my mom’s. She gave it to me before she… you know.

I thought you might… I admire you, Mrs. Margarette.

Maybe my mom would be glad to know her legacy—”

Margarette had taken it, slipping it down the front of her blouse without another word.

“Anything else, dear?”

“Just… could I sit with you guys? I promise not to talk. Just listen.”

Couple of Margarette’s surrogates raised brows.

The sighs. The dismissal: too big, no space, not even on this couch.

And Petals had nodded, shrinking, walking away with shoulders bowed.

Olive sipped her wine, heat prickling her chest.

Petals really was a fool. And yet—something about the memory made the Zinfandel taste sour.

Olive had rolled her eyes at the time. Pathetic.

It’s really pathetic to force friendship, to force yourself on people who doesn’t really like you.

Why can’t Petals be contented with just her friendship, and Ashtons.

What drives her to seek attention and recognition from that damn Margarette

And to giver her that necklace, that’s really beyond insanity.

It’s cluster bomb crazy to the lowest degree.

But now, as she sat waiting, alone at Tristan’s empty table, the memory pressed heavier.

The sting in Petals’ eyes was too familiar.

The way she’d tried to offer something of herself, only to be brushed aside—

Olive gripped her glass harder.

Wasn’t she doing the same thing now?

Dressing herself in borrowed youth, clutching her love like a necklace she wanted someone else to value?

“Miss.”

The waiter reappeared, awkward now. In his hand, a folded slip of paper.

“This is from the gentleman who reserved the table.”

Olive’s fingers trembled as she unfolded it.

Olive, I don’t think this is working. Sorry. –Tristan.

The words blurred. The glass shook in her hand.

Tears welled before she could stop them. Her chest caved, breath hitching.

Then—an arm wrapped around her shoulders.

“Ashton?” Her voice broke.

Her old friend lowered himself beside her, warm hand steadying hers.

Across from them, a tall young man—Leo, the nursing student—hovered with curious eyes.

Ashton smiled faintly, as he looked back with kindness towards Olive.

Leo’s gaze lingered on Olive, soft but suspicious. “Do you like to join our table, maybe that will make you feel better”

Olive couldn’t speak.

She stood, instead, and embraced Ashton tightly.

Then, surprising even herself, she hugged Leo too—brief, desperate, grateful.

And then she left. Calmly, deliberately, clutch in hand, steps quickening as she moved through the restaurant’s awed stares.

“What was that? Do you….happened to know her?” Leo asked gently.

Ashton shook his head. “It’s weird though, it feels like I’ve known her all my life. There’s something about her…”

“That’s familiar?” Leo watched as Ashton gently nods.

Outside, her hired driver straightened when she approached. But his brow furrowed.

“Sorry, miss. Do I… know you?”

Olive’s heart stopped. “It’s me. Just drive.”

The man blinked at her, uneasy. “You? Who are you?”

She fumbled in her bag, pulling out a napkin.

But by the time she lifted it, the shimmer of youth was already draining away.

In her pocket mirror, the pink ribbon dangled against thinning gray hair, the lipstick smeared across deep lines.

The driver’s eyes flicked to the mirror, then back to her. He sighed, shoulders heavy, and started the car.

“Long night,” he muttered. “Guess I’m just seeing things. Must be the makeup.”

Olive pressed the napkin to her lips, the last taste of wine clinging bitter in her mouth.

In her clutch, only ten pills rattled faintly.