She has dark, luscious hair that comes down just past her hips and the kind of smile that either entices or gives an impression of narcissism. Her thick lips are coated in the same red lipstick day after day, her face pale, but not overly so; she is skilled with cosmetics, clever at hiding prominent blemishes or miniscule flaws. In fact, she is clever at hiding anything she wants. Her striking, golden brown eyes continually peer out from beneath heavy, curving lashes with the same expression, the kind that means everything and nothing at all. It is impenetrable. Whatever she is thinking, whatever her feelings, she conceals them beneath that mask just as she conceals imperfections beneath powder and cream.
If one is to ask her whether she has been in love, she might laugh, but she will not have a satisfying answer either for the inquirer or for herself. She does not know what love is. She believes it is just something one cannot control, cannot contain, something wild and unpredictable and fun, like herself. She thinks one can fall in love overnight, after a few drinks and flirtacious glances across a table, perhaps. She thinks it comes without obligations, free of charge, that it is something to amuse herself with one day and dispense of the next; maybe in the morning, when the headaches caused by more than enough alcohol come to visit her, the night seems distant, and that certain man who appeared so attractive before suddenly becomes repulsive to her. But still, she says rumpus and crowds are fun. Addicting, even. At heart she is sick and disgusted, tired of lies, of being admired and put on display like some ignorant animal ... she hates the thought of the next party, the next drink, the next overly hospitable man she might meet - and yet she continues. She can’t stop. Isn’t that life? She says to herself. Just a tumultous merry go round of mistakes and disappointments and excitement? And once you get caught up in it, you can’t just leave and become virtuous like the people you once knew, that long time ago, the ones you shunned and laughed at for being plaster saints ... can you? You don’t simply become a “good” person overnight, the way you become wicked. It isn’t even worth an attempt, because you are sure to fail.
So she keeps on flirting and playing her game, day after day. Time slips from her grasp and the hurricane of life grows giddier, spinning her around in a continuous, wild frenzy. But at least she is surviving. Surviving with your own lies is better than dying with the truth.