she rises, takes the longest shower of her life, and puts on the most dressy she can find in her suitcase -- which is to say something that does not resemble pajamas. She then plays Patti Lu Pone and takes out her makeup kit. Once she starts arching the brows with a dark brown pencil, she cannot stop. She makes it a little heavier than the usual. She curls and thickens the lashes with grayish brown mascara until they look plastic and false, like the ones used during performance. Then she lines the eyelids a lighter shade of brown, and layers them on with bronze shadows, and a touch of glimmer just under the eyebrows. She outlines the lips a fine deep burgundy and fills it with the brightest cherry red. A pinch to the cheeks, a sweep of rouge, and she is almost done, when the door opens. The doctor, followed by the day nurse, enter the room, and they both do a double-take. Their audible surprise calls attention to the caregiver who has been glued to the TV the entire time she has been painting her face. And he asks in surprise if she is going out, and where. She checks herself in the mirror and is almost shocked at how heavy her makeup is, how she looks almost unrecognizable, more so to these people who have gotten used to seeing her barefaced, in jerseys and leggings and cotton shirts, and now so heavily made up, so early in the day. Malakat ka? Makain ka? Yes, to someplace, to meet with some friend. She tries not to sound too defensive. She cannot think of a place to go or anyone to meet. She stays in the hospital the entire day, giving anyone who enters the door a mild shock, to see her on the couch reading, or next to the hospital bed tending the loved one, or in front of the computer surfing the net, surveying the facebook landscape, joining in on conversations without actually typing in anything by way of response. In heavy makeup.
via Still Thinking of One
Another story of hers, here.
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