
Beep.
The doors to the metro open. One of the women who walk in instantly catches my eye. Her face is like a cloud, all round and soft. Yet she is far from chubby, her slanting eyes are perfectly contoured with a thick stroke of eyeliner, and the pink on her lips is barely visible. Her hair shines and glows with health in an ultra-feminine bob and her make-up is so impeccably applied she looks naturally beautiful. The evenness of her skin tone is enhanced by her all-black outfit, from her top to her coat, her leggings to her shoes; as if she knows that her face is begging to be looked at. She sits in the folding seat in the corner opposite me, completely at ease, with a demure, imperturbable look in her eyes, gazing calmly into the distance.
A clasped hand with twitching fingers flits into my field of vision. It belongs to the woman sitting on the seat next to her. I follow the lines of her arm to see the rest of her: she is a riot of colour. A blue shirt with pink flowers peeps out from beneath a severe green jumper over which she has pulled on a black leather jacket. Grey stonewashed jeans give way to floral socks and brown shoes. Her lips are a scarlet red, and her hair gelled into a spiky boy-cut. She sits with her legs spread apart and has made a deliberate attempt to flatten her breasts. The shoulder pads and pointed shoes only heighten her petite écolière look. She is all angles, and unlike her neighbour, she is muttering to herself and fidgeting, as if she can’t keep still.
As I observe her, she looks at me, and for the first time I notice her face. There is nothing striking about it, except her light brown eyes, which she has hidden behind thick-framed spectacles. She sees I am looking at her and looks uncomfortable. Her lips stop moving as she tries to compose and steady herself in my gaze. The first woman is still looking serenely out of the window.
I look away, down to my own shoes, and just as I begin to wonder what I must look like to these women, how they would describe me and evaluate me in their mind’s eyes – starting with the run in my stockings that I hope is hidden underneath the folds of my dress to – Beep.
Last stop. I’m late for my date.
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