Short short stories

In the morning she puts her face back on. She washes discreetly in the bathroom, whilst I pull myself from bed, and by the time I¡¯ve made it to the kitchen to get some tea on, she is sitting upright in the corner of our old sofa with its saggy cushions, her legs twisted underneath her, back straight, bag of makeup and various tubes, powders, eyeliners, lipsticks, gloss¡¯s, pencils, brushes; glimmering like treasure, like dragons hoard in the morning sun, as I boil the kettle.