Fleur looked into the mirror. The vanity lights shone on her face, lighting up her eyes. She rummaged through her makeup bags, feeling the familiar round bases of her brushes. Her character was one of delicate sophistication, but she also needed to be readable from the audience, so that meant strong, simple lines. That was later. First things first, she pulled out the biggest brush and started caking the thick foundation onto her face. It had to stand up to the stage lights, after all.

One swipe across her face went on smoothly and then it hit her. She didn’t have time for this! She was late already. She slapped on a few more strokes as quickly as possible until her face was covered in greasepaint that was streaky and even less attractive than usual. It wasn’t great, but it was going to have to do. That was what the lights were for. Why hadn’t she been here earlier?

She looked to her phone to check the time. 6:40 PM. All right. Her head spinning, she realized she wasn’t quite sure where she was supposed to be, or when. Still, she couldn’t shake the gut-dropping feeling that it was supposed to be about five minutes ago.

She moved on. The blush was just a quick smear of color across her cheeks, and the lips were also easy enough. Her eyebrows weren’t really visible anyway, which was one of the advantages of bangs, so that was fine. That left the eyes. With the speed at which she stabbed the applicator into her eyelid crease, it was a wonder she didn’t damage her eyes. She smudged the dark product around, leaving a result that might have been classified as smoky by someone feeling generous. In actuality it just looked bad. Sharp eyeliner was an important part of the look, but of course with her breath starting to pick up, she bungled that, too.

She looked in the mirror at her messed up face and she still couldn’t remember where she was supposed to go! Tears started to p***k the corner of her eyes. This was just a disaster.

However, when she looked back in the mirror, it wasn’t only her ruined makeup that was striking her as off. The miniature top hat, the one she loved, the one that was part of her black, white, and mint classy aesthetic, it… something. It was something. Slowly, she reached up and brushed her trembling fingers across the silk, and another image flashed into her mind.

"How do I look?" She struck a somewhat silly, very dramatic pose, with one hand tipping the hat while the other was off to the side in a flourish, then dropped her arms to the ground again, smiling wider. "It doesn't match my outfit, does it? " Her smile didn't fade at all. "Oh well." She rarely looked good in darker red.

What? No. Her hat wasn’t red. But, she didn’t wear hats, did she? Of course she did. She was wearing it right now. Still, that memory, that had actually happened. She knew it. She’d just been borrowing the hat, it wasn’t hers at all.

The mirror in front of her and the walls around her rippled, resembling for a moment her uneven foundation. Fleur felt sick.

(Word Count: 551)