Putting on Her Make-Up on the Ferry

I see her face now. It's prematurely weathered in a way that marks too many horrible things seen or imagined, or maybe the result of too many failed experiments with recreational drugs. There are tiny hairline scars from assorted petty cuts, maybe the dull look of tissue too often bruised or maybe blotchiness from blood vessels cracked by heavy drinking. Somethings changed recently--she only now notices the damage on her neglected face. She feels the simultaneous sting and guilt of the betrayal. Like a brickmason, she fertilizes her face in nutrient creams and then seals it in makeup. A big smile wards off prying glances and relapsing into the useless, well-worn past. She's come back where she's from and she's trying reconnect with her old family and friends. She has lost all of her pride since she lived among them, even though pride was the one thing she originally had in overabundance. She doesn't know it, but she came back here to get it back. She wants to keep it this time. Here is some humility in her now, she knows her limitations now.