Rouge

Because what is the face, what, finally, is the skin over the flesh, a cover, a disguise, rouge for the insupportable horror of our living nature.

—Elena Ferrante

“What sort of journey?” I ask.

She looks at me like what a question. “The only journey that matters in the end, Daughter of Noelle.”

“Retinol?” I whisper.

You were such a lonely little girl, weren’t you? Whispering to grass. Befriending sticks. Dreaming yourself into movies and books. Every screen, every page, like a door to another world, remember?

’ll admit I’m afraid to go in. What will I find? Evidence of my insanity? Evidence of hers? Evidence of all the thorns between us?

s I rise from the bed, I notice red jars shining prettily on the insanity. The vanity. My vanity.