Instruments of Survival

She brushes on her smile with her foundation. One hand holding her compact and mirror, the other working the smile deep into the contours of her face, cementing it in for the rest of the day. As the morning rushes by her outside the train she paints her eyes open and shades them from ill intent with mascara and eye shadow. She gives the man talking on his phone an annoyed look as she rifles through her makeup bag for her next instrument of survival. Her shirt looks like a lightweight underarmor in a pretty, springy purple and her long black hair hangs over her left shoulder and down to her belly button. Her makeup bag is gold and slumped in her lap, a smaller black bag in front of it for her brushes. She is wearing black leggings and running sneakers and a small red backpack is held between her feet. Watching her apply her eyeliner on the rocking and jolting train is equal to seeing a master crafts-person at their bench. Her nails are manicured and painted what looks to be a pale pink or opalescent white. Her mask firmly in place she takes up her browning apple core and starts scrolling through her phone.

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