Carefree

Red or pink, pink or red. Your reflection is faded. You're older than you remembered. Red. Pink. Red for love, for lust. Is that what he'll think? Pink for girls (although once it was for boys). Pretty. Frilly, without a defined edge.

You never used to apply lipstick. You'd let your laugh entice, together with your long, sleek hair. Pink, perhaps, not so obvious. He might not notice.

Red then.

It should distract from the furrows fashioned when Ian left, or the hollows forged when Tara was ill. It's designed to say, look at me, I'm young at heart, flourishing, never mind the rest.

Even though you'll keep that hat pressed, jaunty-angled to your scalp on this warm, September evening. Even though you'll strive to convey carefree, relaxed.