Who: Lettie & Bettenby
What: In which Lettie plays with makeup, and hopes for a human canvas.
When: Before curtain up
Where: Outside the makeup trailers
As a rule, Lettie wasn't usually a smoker. It wasn't that she had a problem with cigarettes, but she'd never really enjoyed them either, and so she didn't much see the point of spending what little money she had on them, or inflicting the resulting damage on her lungs. If she could damage her lungs; she wasn't really sure how things like that worked. There was so much she didn't know about what she was, and there was no one to tell her. No one she wanted to talk to, anyway. It was that precise train of thought that had led her to dig out an old, battered pack of Newports and light one, holding it firmly between her lips--painted white blue today, the color of cold corpse flesh--and sucking down lungfuls of thick, acrid smoke, as if the harsh burn might strip away the dissatisfaction and uncertainty she was wrestling with.
Rather than grounding her, however, all smoking seemed to be doing was ruining the sketch she was working on. She'd been drawing out new makeup ideas for almost an hour, sitting on the steps of the trailer and waiting to see if anyone would avail themselves of her services, and she could almost measure the passage of time in the amount of ash streaked across her work. "Bugger," she cursed, and tried again, in vain, to shake it off.
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