The Sales Lady

Descending into a mega-mall, the fluorescence blemishes my skin. There is a twinge in my temples as I approach the makeup counter, meeting eyes with a woman whose shoes pierce my gait and whose artificially white teeth flash like EMP bombs. But I must not be blinded; there is something behind those calcium shutters, illuminating inside her vessel and peaking through each crack ... I wonder. Is her exoskeleton painted so pristinely to brighten the day? Who owns the day she, in every meticulous gesture, labors for? But every question is drowned in a clanging, a clamoring of those persistent teeth trying to make a sale. Rattling around like new tap shoes, sheening ivory. White noise, white noise. Every coherent thought blurred, humming viciously as done in the shadows of the perfect women in chromatic ads. But she is not perfect; I can see her pores. They are weeping the regrets of thick foundation. Those streaks of saline wet speak gallons and shimmer as they slide, revealing pockets of uneven flesh tones, subtle bruises from the hot-lipped sun, every mar a testament to resistance in midst of the Tyrants. Gravity, Matter and Time; how admirably this body has battled them, unaware of its own striking animal; a masterwork of sinew and bone, of neurons and cartilage, of mucus and moles. Each electron hums in its proud, puffed little chest. In earnest I wonder, does the sales lady know every outline, every wrinkle of her beige, waterproof suit? Does she wear it in precious stride, beaming just bright enough so as to share her whole self, lovely-garish, yet never glaring the keenest lens? There is no answer. I only nod slightly, appreciating her mottled gem eyes, politely severing our feeble connection, departing, contemplating them, that such dazzling blue could exist immersed in milky pools disrupted by long-legged channels of blood.