She has beautiful round blue-green eyes, which she has carefully made up, but the focus is on her mouth. Her skin, which has been heavily Pan-Caked and powdered to cover an outbreak of acne, is pasty-white, and her lips are painted bright red. She’s wearing black stockings with runs in them, a vintage dress that’s a size too small, and a pair of black clogs. The dark roots show on purpose-nothing about Courtney is an accident-and today she’s attached a plastic hair clip in the shape of a bow to a few strands. She’s tall and big-boned and her shoulder-length hair is cut like a mop and dyed yellow-blond. When you’re an hour late, you can really make an entrance. But by that time Courtney is gone-she’s off keeping someone else waiting. Until they can’t stand it anymore and then they get mad, fed up, and move on. She assumes that they will forgive her as they stare at the clock and stare at the door and wonder where the hell she is. She’s late for band rehearsals, she was late when she used to strip, she was even an hour late for a meeting with a record-company executive who wanted to sign her band, Hole. She’s nearly always late, and not just ten, fifteen minutes late, but usually more like an hour past the time she’s said she’ll be someplace.
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