Staying human

Various dates, various times, around West Hollywood

We have never spoken to one another. She probably wouldn't recognize me. I say she, but I don't know if that's hir preferred pronoun; ze has a prominent Adam's apple, but otherwise presents as a woman. Ze is black, short, slight, freighted with an impressive number of white plastic shopping bags, and wears neat black fingerless gloves. None of these is what I notice first about hir, however. What I see first is hir makeup.

It's beautiful, always. Hir eyes are outlined in vivid green shadow; carefully shaped, their bold design naturally attracts my own eyes, focuses my attention on hir. Every line on hir face is exquisitely drawn. The foundation is several shades lighter than hir skin, and I wonder if that's hir choice or just happenstance. That color difference gives me pause.

I mentioned hir to my roommate a little while ago, the last time I saw hir. That was a few weeks ago on the number four bus, near the corner of Santa Monica and San Vicente. I couldn't quite put my finger on what was so spectacular about hir makeup. "If that's what makes you feel human,..." my roommate said. That was it.

Whatever hir story, ze certainly feels human enough to go through the ritual of putting on hir face. It's those rituals, those routines that keep us anchored to life, sometimes. Sometimes, they're all we have.