Staring at you, taking off your make up and wondering why you even put it on.
Why did she have the operation in the first place?
Her teary eyeliner smudges itself over finely crafted cheekbones, a sharply lined jaw, hidden patches of metal, obscures it all, melts into her skin. What was she after, she wonders. An improved bite? An improved face? Are her teeth any different from before, especially now, she having forgotten to wear the retainers for a week straight and now feeling them pushing back out to the sides?
Does she care enough to wipe the lipstick off? Red will stain, like wine. If she scrubs, she sentences herself to another week of intense medical cream to repair the swelling. Surely she didn't paint herself for someone else - but then, surely she wouldn't go through needless trouble for herself.
"I looked good," she tells the melting face in the mirror, and the melting face mimics her. I looked good, it says, sneers, whimpers. "Fuck you, I looked fabulous," she hisses back, and the blackened tear-streaks suddenly take on a survivalistic tone, her jaw feels her own again and her lipstick takes life. The face in the mirror is her own. "I looked great," she growls, and wipes her armour off.