Make-up

You couldn't help but notice her make-up.

I first saw her during my routine eye dance around the Tube on the way to work.  Restless and bored, I allowed my gaze to flit between commuters, undeterred by any shame at sudden eye contact (others are always the first to look away; on the Tube nobody challenges you).   But I allowed myself to rest on her briefly, taking in her impossibly voluminous hair, wiglike, and her burnt sienna complexion with its powdery texture.  A texture which came to a slow but marked halt somewhere halfway down her neck, after which you could see a small expanse of naked skin.

I'm fascinated by this quality of make-up.  It exists solely to make people look better, but is ridiculous and clown-like in the flesh.   However, it lends polish to photos, and that’s all anyone cares about now: the present is erased in a flash while photos stand the test of time.  You can supplant memories with stills showing improvement on nature.  But on my commute all I can see is the tired bags under travellers’ eyes, spread over with orange butter, and deep wrinkles in the skin where the foundation holds the last expression made.

She wasn't ashamed to catch me looking.  She met my glance as it did its first round, perhaps drawn by the pause in my trajectory, and when my eyes danced back again she was still staring at me.

I was unsettled, but I don’t startle easily.  I held eye contact.  She frowned slightly, quizzically to my mind, but did nothing.  Then she got off at the next stop.  The day kaleidoscoped around me and I forgot about her.

I saw her again the next day, this time embellished with bright blue eyeshadow that burnt a hole in her ochre complexion.  This time she came and stood next to me on the Underground.  She did it as if by accident, but it felt a pointed move, so that I couldn’t remember how people naturally stand in such situations and ended up contorted into a Musical Statues arrangement.  We both stood staring straight ahead at the opposite side of the carriage as though it wasn't significant, but I could feel my heart beating hard in my chest without the faintest idea why.  I tried not to look directly at her reflection.

I saw her many times over the course of the next few weeks and months, peacock-painted in varying ways.  Often she would stand close by and we would play our game of glance chicken.  Sometimes, delays meant that our train was packed and, the British fussiness around personal boundaries toppled by necessity, we were pushed close as lovers.  She was a little taller than me, although I am tall myself, and her stocky frame overshadowed my sinewy figure.  I could detect a floral scent.  I tried not to breathe on her.

She said something once.  It was an especially empty train – both of us were later to work than usual – and we stood in our usual attitude as silent friends.  This time she turned to look directly at me, and before she got off at her stop she reached out a hand and touched my face.  Her fingertips grazed my naked skin, and she sighed lightly.  “Shame,” she murmured in a deeply resonant voice.  Then she glided away as though nothing had happened.