It’s entirely possible to get ready for a night out without once looking at yourself in the mirror. She knows this because she’s perfected the moves. The makeup is understated, fast sweeps of barely there color that don’t betray her by falling out of place. It’s as if her fingers, after years of careful study, have memorized the contours of her face, knowing exactly where and with how much pressure to brush on blush and eyeshadow. Short, fast swipes at her eyelashes with a fat mascara wand, quick sweeps of lipstick against her mouth. It’s shamefully easy.

There are moments however, stray moments when a mistep puts her right in front of a mirror or other reflective surface and if she’s not quick enough she catches sight of the colors that do betray her. The blacks and blues, the various shades of purple that are entirely manmade. When those moments occur her eyes, as quickly as a summer storm, overflow and she has to start all over again.

Her fingers once again trace her face, sweeping on color. The fintertips are much more sensitive the second time around and along with the silky feel of the makeup she feels the coarse, crude roughness of those purples, blacks and blues.

[5]