We hadn’t done each other’s makeup since we were sixteen, maybe seventeen. You know—back when we thought “smokey eye” meant attacking your entire eyelid with black eyeliner and a prayer.

Maria sat cross-legged on the floor like it was 2009 and we were doing this in her mom’s kitchen. I started with her brows.

“Bitch,” I said, holding the pencil like a tattoo gun. “You ready for this ride?”

“Take me to church.”

She did mine after. And, I’ll be real—she did too much in the best way. Overdrawn lips. Razor-sharp liner. Chola glam with a touch of “accidentally kissed a Crayola.”

We both looked in the mirror. Simultaneously gasped.

“We can’t go out like this.”

Maria flipped her hair like a novella villain. “Why not? Who needs attention when we can be weird, cute, and crazy-looking?” Then she winked. “*Besides—*a lot of Latinas love this look.” She pointed at her lips, lined with dark brown, filled with sparkly pink. “Straight up Mexican gangster lady meets Rosie the Riveter.”

We added some fake moles. Maria threw on hoops the size of steering wheels. I tied a bandana over my head. We walked out the front door like we were about to jump someone and unionize a shipyard.

San Francisco Photo Montage Begins: (Set to a dreamy Chicano soul song. Something with organ and echo and heartbreak.)

Clarion Alley: We strike a pose in front of a giant mural of Heklina—painted in full drag regalia, arms stretched wide like a queer saint. We salute her. We blow kisses. We leave a flower.

Balmy Alley: We find a mural of two women in love, surrounded by papel picado and prayers. Maria touches one of the hands. Says, “She looks like my Tía Rosa.”

City Lights Bookstore: We try to act intellectual, but end up in the banned books section giggling over a poetry book titled Your Lip Gloss Is Still Poppin’.

The Wave Organ: We sit at the edge of the sound sculpture, listening to the ocean gurgle like a haunted throat chakra. Maria whispers, “I think it just burped in Spanish.”

The Vulcan Stairs: Painted steps, one of them says: “You Are Not Lost.” We take a selfie, holding each other, laughing like we’ve always been found.

The Musée Mécanique: We get our fortunes read by the creepy animatronic gypsy and scream when it tells us we’ll be married within the year. Maria: “To who?! My Uber driver?!?”

The Tonga Room: We drink overpriced cocktails under fake thunderstorms and toast to making it out alive.

The Castro Theatre Marquee: It says: "TONIGHT: CARRIE (1976) - IN 35MM" We squeal. “She was right to burn it all down,” Maria says.

We end the night sitting on a bench near the Conservatory of Flowers. The city glows in a way only San Francisco can—soft, weird, old, and holy.

Maria looks at me. Eyes shiny, but not from tears. Just love.

“Thanks for today,” she says. “I forgot how good it feels to be a mess.”

I laugh. “We’ve always been a mess. We’re just better at accessorizing now.”

Places We Love (In No Order):

Clarion Alley Mural Project

Casa Guadalupe Tienda on 24th

The Castro Theatre (specifically for cult movies)

Dog Eared Books (shout out to the witchy section)

El Rio (for dancing and deviance)

The Beat Museum

The Vulcan Steps (to feel dramatic and vaguely European)

Mission Dolores Park (the grassy gay coliseum)

Paxton Gate (where every trinket has a soul)

Red Blossom Tea Company (where Maria flirts with the tea guy every time)

The GLBT History Museum (our church)

The Alley Piano Bar (chaos in musical form)

Tony’s Pizza Napoletana (because divinity comes with melted cheese)

Next entry? Maybe I tell Maria the ring was warm all day. Or maybe we stay like this a little longer.