Brunette waves in curlers, she stands in front of her vanity, and gazing at her reflection goes to sit. It is early morning and the sun has barely made itself known. The twilight blue sky only just giving way to peaches and pinks, as the mid-purple gradient begins to evaporate back into space, back to the other half of the world where the clocks are all set differently than now. She is timing herself. Turning on the radio and sifting past static, she begins to read a magazine by her vanity light, licking her fingers every time she goes to turn a page. Today will be her 5th interview, and everyday she ignores the wolves of depression, invisible and always nipping at her heels, and wakes up early and goes through the beautification process. The only lesson her mother ever taught her. The only subject where these questions were ever answered. She is graying, and eyes herself suspiciously in the mirror. What happens to youth? Again, unanswered. Her mother now dead. Her timer dings and she begins to remove these tightly wrapped pink, plastic cylinders. Once they’re all out, she looks herself over and smiles. Now is time to open the shades and curtains, and apply lipstick. The radio spouts off the latest headlines before going into a buoyant jazz tune. She wants the music to take her away. Carefully outlining her lips she begins to lightly tap her foot. The house is very quiet everywhere else besides his corner. The sun starts its ascent and peep in through the window lighting up her bedroom. She had dreams once. And they never looked like this. Perfect, she thinks to herself as she completes her face. Standing up, she looks around and gathers what she needs before heading downstairs. Careful not to wake her husband, hungover and surely belligerent after a night of imbibing, she gently closes the door and turns off the radio in the bathroom. She saves her heels for the very last step, where she slips them on near the front door.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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