This story comes with a trigger warning. If you suffer from depression or you’re suffering from a depressive episode, this story might not be for you.
How do you do your make up when you’re sad?
I ask myself, as I stare in the mirror. The pools of my eyes are only slightly overflowing; not enough to form a tear, but enough to reveal the hurt that still clings to my chest. I will them away. I’ve wasted enough tissues today.
So, how do you paint your face when you are feeling blue? You obviously don’t want to go too wild with the eyes. Perhaps some mascara to hide the most stubborn smudges on my lashes that neither tears nor remover washes off. The eyes are the mirror to your soul, they say. They will betray you first.
No eyeliner, no eyeshadow. Just some highlighter to brighten up the gloom.
And the lips. Of course, my only ally. Paint them bold, big, luscious. Let my sensual mouth distract people from my sorrowful eyes. That lovely bright peach lipstick, where is it?
I smile at my own genius. The smile doesn’t reach my eyes.
– – –
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
I look up from my drink. I had been lost in thought.
I do not know where he had come from but suddenly a kind-looking guy with auburn hair is standing right in front of me. Dressed up like your average hipster, a metropolitan lumberjack that is more likely to plant a tree than to cut one.
“I’m sorry, not that I can recall,” I mumble a reply.
“No, I mean… Is there a chance I may have seen you somewhere? Are you maybe an actress or a supermodel or something?”
Is this guy for real?
I’m like 5’2 but still I couldn’t help but feel a little flattered. Don’t kid yourself, I tell myself. It’s just an excuse to strike up conversation.
“Really? You just have this… aura of someone who has stumbled into a wrong party. You look so classy but a little secluded drinking here alone by yourself. Maybe it’s just guys being a little intimidated by how pretty you are.
What a sweet talker. Still, it’s all in kind.
“You are very welcome.”
“My friend just went to get some drinks from the kitchen.” I don’t know why I feel like I must explain myself.
“Yes,” he muses. “That brunette in the red dress? I believe she got distracted.”
“Did she now?”
“Yes, in fact she did.”
He eyes me from head to toe, a faint smile on his lips. I feel weirdly small standing next to him. He’s a tall guy with broad, well-built shoulders. I like the intelligent spark in his green eyes, which makes him appear motivated, like there is a purpose to his speaking with you.
The way his eyes are looking at me, I wish they were brown. Eyes of someone else.
“So, why are you moping here by yourself? Why not get to know some people, maybe even dance a little?”
He flashes me a friendly smile.