The Portrait of an Unknown Woman
There were worse things than being exactly what she was.
She emptied out the contents of her purse.
First came the tubes of lipstick. There were three shades: mauve, pearl pink, and fire-engine red. They were each a part of her — a part of the woman she played in her various roles — but she didn’t like to linger on these pieces. After all, they were just throwaway bits that would one day fall in the scatter of what she had once been.
Next she ran her fingers along the ephemera: the scraps she’d collected from her day. A crumpled-up napkin with the smeared black ink of a phone number she’d forgotten she had received. A wrinkled business card with a name she’d like to forget. A print-out of an online article about the death of a wealthy woman who had left all her money to her dog while cutting out her three children from the will. All these things went into the trash bin underneath the small kitchenette in the hotel room.
Then, at last, she picked up the prize: the package of Oreos she’d managed to avoid eating despite hunger pains assailing her throughout the day. Still, she did not allow herself the craving as she set aside the package and ran a hand along her forehead. A pounding knot had formed at the side of her head, but she refused to give it much semblance of thought.
