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It's 9:15 am, that time of the day
when everything must work flawlessly, when the economy of time
and the acts contained in each minute can carry consequences that
will define it in its entirety. This is what I'm thinking in a
subway car, filled with passengers that slows down as it enters
a station, stopping almost imperceptibly and opening its doors
for the reshuffle. In the crowd of newcomers I focus on a dull
faced, middle aged woman who comes in with avid, almost animal
like eyes, capable of making up an available sit where there isn't
one. The woman eventually sits in front of me and I immediately
discover she has a mission.
When the train leaves the station her mind and senses quickly
survey the amount of space available to her, the time of the day
and the quality of the train's motion. Then she goes right to
work. She puts her briefcase between her feet, extracts a pouch
out of her purse and out of it comes a small bottle of foundation,
which she starts to apply on her face with eyes closed. The woman
knows her face; she covers every inch of it without staining her
brows or hair. She works in total synchronicity with the train
and when she finishes she can tell there's still some seconds
before the next stop and she uses them for a few deep breaths.
I too breathe with eyes closed while my mind recreates the image
of that uniformly ivory face, a freshly primed canvas waiting
to be worked on.
When the train starts again I open my eyes to see that the woman
is now applying two shades of blush with a thick brush giving
her face shape and dimension, adding to it unexpected personal
qualities. Then come the eye shadows. She builds her eyes with
short and swift strokes giving them life and intelligence, but
she allows herself only a detached inspecting look in the mirror
before she brings out the eye liner which she must use during
the next stop. Holding the eyeliner in her hands she indulges
herself in a brief moment of rest and her eyes casually rest on
mine startling me like a person who is caught violating another's
privacy. I immediately look down pretending to go back to my book
and I say "pretending" because I'm not able to read
one word. How can I read while a human being is being created
in front of my eyes? I can't take my mind away from it though
I know I shouldn't spy. What can I do? Where should I look? Shame
and confusion win and I raise my gaze to her eyes apologetically
but at that moment the train stops and the woman re focuses on
her task. She now applies the eye liner on the edges of her eyes
with only one set back caused by a slight bump on her elbow, but
this doesn't bring her moral down and she is able to correct the
stray line and finish as the doors close and the train starts
to leave the station. Now her wholly defined eyes must stay wide
open and fixed for a little while so the paint will dry up. The
lady uses the time to brush her brows and to spray on a fragrance
I can smell from my seat and makes me remember the funeral flower
wreaths. This is why I have always hated perfumes, why do perfumes
have to be this sweet and unnerving thing that imposes on your
sense of smell with the arrogance of that which assumes it to
be desirable? I feel I am now the object of transgression and
my rebelliousness is awakened. What should I do? Should I fulminate
the insolent lady with a look? But no, I ultimately keep my eyes
down because I don't want to be caught again and perhaps punished
by that face that gains character and dimension by the second.
The swaying of the train finally calms me down and gives me the
courage to look up at the lady. She shows no signs of knowing
she's being observed or even of being surrounded by people while
she brushes her wavy hair leaving it deliciously fluffy. The lips,
which in the eyes of the beauty don't need much attention, receive
only a slight coat of Vaseline to make them shine. She then checks
the time and closes her eyes to give herself and internal touch
up. She wakes up her feelings and dusts off and defines her purpose
for the day, all the while avoiding bad memories that could spoil
her pulse before the last stage of her work: the mascara application
during the next stop. As expected she performs a flawless operation,
painting the last lashes as the train starts to move. And I sense
the next is her stop. I can tell the beautiful lady is proud of
her work while her eyes are once more wide open, though not fixed,
and she is looking around her. Once the mascara is dried her eyes
starts to gaze and blink normally and she even makes a brief comment
and offers a smile to the old lady sitting next to her. For a
second and last time the beauty's eyes rest on mine and I interpret
it as an absolution, which I accept with a sigh. The train stops
for the reshuffle of passengers. In the crowd that leaves there
is a beautiful woman walking on the platform in great harmony.
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