it is a dance, carefully choreographed and carried out each evening with painstaking precision. the shower, the blow dryer, one-two-three, one-two-three. she makes a particular face in the mirror, the same one her mother still makes three thousand miles away. 

the eyeliner, mascara, one-two-three, one-two-three. she reaches for her lipstick, smiles to herself picturing the lusty look he gets on his face when she wears it. smile, smooth it on, blot off the extra, repeat. 


she changes the radio station, (one-two-three, one-two-three) sings along in her underwear, (and four and five and six and) waits for the phone call. it comes, of course, right on time and she slips a sweater over her head and slings her bag over her shoulder. 

she checks her lipstick, pursing her lips into the mirror, and disappears into the night.