Plump little dumpling duck stares into her mirror. She cakes herself in foundation. Addicted, she cannot stop applying. She paints and paints to make her hateful face go away. No avail. Arched eyebrows. Tiny slits in stone to see from. Chubby cheeks suffocating in fat and powder. Human bakery. The face mask wafts down in chalky flakes, building up on her shoulders. Eczema of suede. When she shakes the chalk gets on everyone else on the subway. She cannot wait for the day to be over. She hates her job. She wants to be home painting toy soldiers. She, likes everyone from Russia, thinks of World War II vividly.
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