Time
has not lessened my disconcertment when a woman sits down opposite in the
morning train and starts making her face. Not a yard between us, she lifts the little
mirror from her bag and gets to work. There’s something she wipes on her cheek,
a brush does cleaning or colouring (how would I know, who turn to watch streets
go by?), eyebrows need attention, and there’s the artistry of the lips.
Unselfconscious, it’s a regular procedure for her. Job done, she drops the
mirror back into the depths, then turns to the same landscape as mine, the same
November.
No comments:
Post a Comment