Public Face. Private Face.

She is funny. Gregarious. Life of the party. Smart. Cool. Intelligent.

She is silly. Quiet. Full of attitude.  Sarcastic. Hilarious. Observant. Reflective. Meditative.

She is gorgeous.  Gear lit.  Hair, makeup, clothes.  A reflection of years in the beauty industry. "The worse you feel the better you should look." Every outfit suitable for the occasion. Fredrick and Victoria. Never too much.  Never too little.

She is comfortable.  Nerdy.  Glasses and worn hoodies.  Sweats.  Walmart Captain America boy cuts and matching wife beater. Hair up.  What's makeup?  She is good to glow in her own skin.  She is aware that true beauty comes from cultivation of the mind and heart.  So she reads a lot.

She is smart.  Witty.  She is kind and clever.  Draws attention to those who need attention, perfecting the art of deflection.  She is able to speak intelligently on any topic, even if she is spit balling.  She has developed the ability to ask questions.  To listen intently. Respond with empathy. People are drawn to her.

She is filter-less.  She says what she thinks.  Loudly.  Emphatically.  Feeling all the words she chooses to say. She is also willing to back down when she is wrong. Surrounding herself with people who know her well enough to not take her honesty offensively.  They understand she wants no filter behind closed doors. She is passion personified. They respect her for it. They understand her.  They love her. They are protective of her.  They know how easily she bruises.  They know how much she hates her mask.

She is guarded.  Saying less than they think she does. Always thinking so much more.  She is classic. Exactly the way they hope that they could be if they were less human.  Impermeable. Ice and fire all rolled into one. Able to cool you down and heat you up. French twist, little black dress and a martini.

She is tired.

Showtime.

-The postscript-

She plays cards.  Leaves on the W. She does not like to be touched unless invited.  She is touched a lot. She understands that it's all a part of the game.  She spends some time trying to make the corner of the couch envelop her.  She realizes she has failed when an arm sneaks around the back of the couch.  She reminds herself it is a part of the game.  She smiles. Plays word games.  Mind games. Tries not to commit herself.  She embraces her role and puts on a show.  At the curtain call she is hugged a lot by men whom she has not invited to touch her.  She reminds herself not to cringe.  She is walked to her car.  She is bid goodnight. She gets in the car and takes out her french twist and puts her hair in a bun. Her performance is over.

She is too raw to go home so she goes to the airport instead.  She drives in circles around the airport with her best friend.  She tells caustic stories about her night and they both laugh so hard that liquids spew from orifices that should only receive them. She listens intently to her friends day.  Commiserates that the world is, in fact, full of idiots. Once they have talked they are content to sit in silence.  She content to breathe cold night air and listen to nothing and eat a bagel.  Her best friend is playing the annual meeting and eating slim jims.  The silence and the companionship heal her raw places.  She is whole again. She goes home.  They do not hug. At home she showers off her public face and the cologne that she isn't willing to bring into her bed.  She thanks her public face for another successful show.  She slides into her cowboys jersey.  She climbs into bed.  She starts to write.