Re: Third class, dining.
The mime didn't understand what made that lipstick so important. The mime didn't care what made that lipstick so important. She cared about that mirror and the new and improved lines on her face. Triumphant, she put down the liner and snarled at her own reflection.
But the new lines became less. Got small er.
Until the old lines were back. Tiny little sad things that curved down from her perfect little cupid's bow lips. She hated everything. She motioned dramatically to her face. Do you see? She grabbed the mirror and threw it angrily. She crossed her arms over the knees that she lifted to press against her chest. She couldn't cry. She wouldn't cry.
Instead, she looked up at the horrendously beautiful woman, and she stuck her tongue out at her. An emphatic shrug of her shoulders came next. Point? What point could there possibly be? What?
What did the woman know? She wasn't forced to wear a hat that looked like a cushion, and her hair didn't look like a boy's, and the suspenders (here, she snapped them angrily), the suspenders were the absolute worst. The woman didn't have to suffer the ignominy of having her breasts flattened by elastic.