Monday Morning

	Soapy water spirals down the drain as our heroine twists the faucet with a decisive jerk. The shower spray ceases, excess dripping down the shiny white shower walls. A thin white hand pulls back the shower curtain, and our heroine emerges, dripping on the bath mat. Even naked and alone, denied excuses of baggy clothing and self-consciousness, she possesses no natural grace. She moves clumsily to face the mirror invisible beneath shower steam, feet falling flat on the slippery floor. She pulls a white towel around her hair, ringing out some of the water, as a multitude of droplets plash against the tile. The drain noisily gargles our heroine’s dissolved filth, transformed into perfume by clean-scented soap and shampoo smelling of fresh berries and flowers. A night of regrets, tears, masturbation, and lies slowly disappears with the foamy remains of her morning shower. She wipes the condensation off the mirror and glares unforgivingly at her reflection.
	Our heroine - celebrated non virgin, sexual conquistador, multi-talented connoisseur of the art of lovemaking - cannot bear to look at herself naked. Every touch of every boy has left a burning white scar in her mind. Some she loved, some she wanted, some she didn’t care one way or the other about. And here, now, she is ashamed of herself. Her modesty, kept a close, dark secret from her peers, reveals itself, and the sight of her own body embarrasses her. She quickly wraps herself in a soft dark green terrycloth bathrobe to cover the tender pink skin that somehow feels innocent yet. With those humiliating soft places of naivety and maybe even guilty virtue hidden from sight, the mirror image is easier to deal with. She leans closer and thoughtfully touches her cheek. Time to create a new face for the day. 
	Our heroine reaches into a drawer and removes a bottle of liquid foundation. Pouring a small puddle of ivory makeup into the palm of her hand, she begins applying the cool, smooth paste to her cheeks, nose, chin, forehead. She smooths it out along her jaw line, blending the artificial color with the truth of her neck. Unnatural, artificial, and aesthetically pleasing - just like her daily living routine. She needs to do this. Human nature specifies that given a glimpse of a more attractive version of previously  natural beauty, it will accept nothing less to be beautiful. Those who lack the clear skin and the good heart and the pure soul have to come up with some sort of way to conceal it, to gloss it over, to fabricate the image society demands. The truth has to be pushed far from the surface, into the most remote depth of the heart, where its owner must build a wall around it and guard that wall from any intruder with the ferocity of an animal fighting for its life. Here lies the insurmountable divisions that so often exist even between the closest friends. Our heroine’s makeup and fake behavior combine to form a cosmetic mask to cover imperfections, to give a socially acceptable rock to hide beneath. It’s all a show.
	Her hand gropes in the drawer until it finds the thin, slick black eyeliner pencil. To give this mask “personality.” Unlike most teenage girls, she doesn’t use the eyeliner to enhance natural beauty. Instead, she draws thick black circles around her bluish  greenish gray eyes, creating sort of an abused raccoon look. To cover the natural delicateness of her curly golden eyelashes, she smothers them with heavy black mascara. She remembers that mascara is made out of bat shit. This knowledge doesn’t bother her. In fact, it seems almost fitting. She does this, she tells herself, to draw attention to her eyes and away from the rest of her face. But all she’s really accomplished is creating a pair of bruised eyes, the requisite “uniqueness” that so many find so attractive. It’s a uniqueness that is as conformed as indoor plumbing, a uniqueness born of a desire to be the individual, quirky character she feels is her role to play. Her world is so obsessed with being a unique individual, she is desperate to cover the thought that maybe she really is just like everyone else. 
	Behind her mask these thoughts don’t seem so prominent. Behind her mask she’s only an actor choosing her part. She finds no fault in playing her character to the utmost of her dramatic ability. Besides, when she’s looking through these painted eyes, it’s easier to ignore the simple truth that in reality she feels like she barely counts as an extra. 
	A touch of powder to accent her pale skin tone (she used to be ashamed of it but now she’s incorporated it into her personal “style”), and she’s finished. She wears her mask like a real face, and her fake personality she cherishes like a real identity.
	Our heroine smiles sarcastically at her reflection, and walks out to dress and begin her day.