Soldier

["there's a girl in new york city,
who calls herself the human trampoline." -p.s.]


there now, don't look at yourself in the mirror. when you come straight out of the shower, it's always better to take things slow. for example: eye, nose, mouth...take each feature in separately, methodically, moving from one body part to the next without focusing on the whole picture--at least not just yet.

this is where we'll start to draw the line of the right eyebrow. with a steady hand, recreate that striking arch in the brow that all the women in your family have. pull the pencil across then down, ending at a sharp, clean point at the delicate temple.

then move on to the dark circles beneath the eyes that need to be concealed, the faint wrinkles only you can see, and those stubborn blackheads on the tip of your nose. ah, look at how the eyes open up immediately with two confident strokes of heavy black liner; the lashes coated in thick mascara.

now watch carefully, as the lips emerge from the fog in the bathroom mirror. your mouth is your most prized possession. you paint it dark and edible like a wounded cherry.

part the hair and pull it back into a tight chignon. a dab of perfume behind the ears, the neck and the two bone-thin wrists. perhaps you'll wear your mother's necklace.

voila, you've replicated her image exactly. the black and white portrait of the famous french writer on the cover of your book--you can't miss it. now, you can finally leave your room, this sad little apartment with all of its sad little objects like a cardboard dollhouse. you leave your playthings behind and take to the streets. you are a woman, after all--and this is a woman's face.

tomorrow, perhaps, you will have to move to a different apartment and change your address. it doesn't matter where you go, as long as you have this arsenal of soft, feminine objects to put on and take off as you please. you carry this face of hers with you the way a snail carries its home on its back.