Two Girls Crying

A water and salt mixture drench her face, forming hands, beaded titghtly around her neck. She wants to be alone, yet doesn’t. In the stall her wimpers would be muffled. So she has assumed the rights to the sink farthest from the facility’s entrance. She needs attention, but doesn’t mean to cause a scene. The glancers, starers, empathizers, and sympathizers all gag their conversations, and promptly do their business. She wants someone to ask her if she’s okay. She wants to acquit her anger with a witty reply like “does it look like I’m okay?”, or a snide remark, like “Are you okay?”. She knows exactly what she looks like. Her reflection stares her down. They are accustomed to the often mental conversations with one another. As they look each other over, they see their inflamed self proclaimed flaws. Reddening blood vessels stain her eyes. Her face swollen and rosy with emotion, trying to rub away the tread marks of her mascara, which had been driven from her lashes. She tries to smile at herself, straining her jaw muscles to make the practiced shape. She straightens out her box made “#9 Natural Blonde” hair. She reaches out to her first aid kit. The tingling of her adrehnaline reaches her finger tips and she struggles with its zipper. She rummages through the concealer tubes, blush pans, and the similar containers of unnaturally pink glosses, beginning to mend the broken makeup.