The Pause Before the Mascara

December twenty-third. Simone came over before the shift because it made more sense than her going home first, and we ended up in the bathroom at the same time the way you do when your apartment is a certain size and there's only one mirror. I had my hair half up, which was the plan, and then I stopped having a plan and just stood there holding the mascara wand while Simone looked at her own reflection with the exact expression of someone who has done the math on the December schedule and does not like the answer.

I don't know who took the first picture. I think Simone grabbed it because we both looked so specifically tired that it felt documentable. The overhead light in that bathroom is not kind, it's the kind of light that shows you exactly what you are working with, which on December twenty-third is not a lot. We both just sort of accepted it.

mid-mascara, mid-nowhere

There's a thing that happens when you get ready with someone else in a small space. You stop performing getting ready and you just do it. Simone had one hand flat on the counter. I finally put the mascara on. We were going to be a little late and we both already knew it and neither of us said it out loud, which felt like a small mutual gift.

both of us, fully present, completely nowhere

Two days before Christmas. Gerald has a new long vine drooping over the windowsill in the kitchen, which I keep meaning to note properly and keep not noting properly. The collapsed bowl is still there beside him, catching the winter light. Some things just stay where you put them and that's the whole story.