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Marek calmly opened the container, peering inside as if expecting to see something more than yesterday’s stew. I stood still, feeling my hands automatically clench into fists. “Well, what’s in there, superstar? Did I not put the spoon the way you like it?” I thought sarcastically, watching him inspect the lunch as if he was about to grade my homework.
– Great job, Polya, – he finally said, slamming the lid shut. His gaze lingered on me a little longer than I would have liked. – As always, top-notch.
I forced something resembling a smile, trying not to explode right there. Marek picked up the container, put it in his bag, and, tossing a casual “Hurry up, okay?”, walked into the hallway, leaving me with my boiling anger.
“Go to hell!” I snorted inwardly, heading to the bathroom. I needed to do my makeup.
Under the sink, I found the makeup bag and the instructions: foundation, blush, eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner, and, of course, bright red lipstick. I sat down in front of the mirror, feeling like a complete idiot. What the hell was I doing?
Cleanse your skin and apply moisturizer.
Apply foundation to even out your complexion.
Use mascara to lightly accentuate your lashes.
Apply a bit of blush to your cheeks.
Finish with lipstick.
I sighed and rubbed my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Makeup. The word itself sounded like a mockery, as if someone had deliberately decided to humiliate me by putting me through this ridiculous ordeal.
I opened the makeup bag. Inside were dozens of tubes, brushes, and jars, each screaming, “You’re a woman, and this is your duty.” The instructions on the piece of paper looked like furniture assembly instructions, only instead of parts, it was layer upon layer to create a new “look.”
– Alright, Mike, you’ve got this, – I muttered, trying to convince myself.
I sat in front of the mirror, spreading out the contents of the makeup bag, and looked at my new “beautiful” face. It was kind of mine, but only kind of. My lips were too full, my cheekbones looked like someone had drawn them on, and my lashes were so long they cast their own shadow. Just yesterday, I saw Mike O’Connor in the mirror—a guy who lived by his own rules, was the leader among his friends, and didn’t bow to anyone. And today? This? Some damn farce with red lipstick and blush.
I picked up the foundation, opened the tube, and mechanically started reading the instructions on the packaging. As if I needed that. I dabbed some on my fingers. The sensation was unpleasant: a thick, sticky substance that immediately made my skin feel greasy. I smeared it on my cheek and froze. In the mirror, a woman carefully evening out her skin tone stared back at me. A woman. My reflection was literally mocking me.
– Mike, you’re at rock bottom, – I muttered, starting to blend the foundation.
Every time I ran my fingers over my skin, my breasts swayed softly, distracting me. Damn heavy breasts. They were impossible to ignore. The bra only emphasized every movement, as if deliberately reminding me, “You’re a woman now, get used to it.”
I was almost done with the foundation when Marek’s voice came from the hallway:
– Polya! How much longer are you going to be? We’ll be late if you keep dawdling!
I clenched my teeth. Blood rushed to my face, but not from anger—from helplessness. Late? Are you serious? This hulk, this Polish prototype of Builder of the Year, who probably never did more than comb his eyebrows in his life, is rushing me because I, apparently, need to hurry up with my makeup.
– I just started! – I shouted, angry at the high-pitched voice that came out. It sounded too sweet, too soft, too... not me. I didn’t even recognize myself.
Sighing, I turned back to the mirror and started blending the remaining patches of foundation. Every movement of my fingers across my face felt strange. My skin was soft, too soft, as if I’d stepped into someone else’s body. Well, that’s exactly what had happened. Looking in the mirror, I saw that “adorable” face again—big eyes, full lips. Apolonia’s face, but with my gaze. The contrast was driving me insane.
The foundation finally settled, and I moved on to mascara. The little tube with a thin brush looked ridiculous in my hand, as if I was about to fix a microchip. I brought the brush to my eyes, and then the real challenge began—not poking myself in the eye.
– Come on, Mike, – I muttered. – You’re a tough guy. You can handle mascara, and then you’ll go back to your normal life. Just... just hang in there.
The first stroke was a disaster. I smeared it across my eyelid, and now it looked like I had a black smudge under my eye.
– Brilliant, – I hissed, grabbing a cotton pad. When I finally finished with the lashes, they looked so long and fluffy that I wanted to roll my eyes. How do people even live with lashes like this? Every blink reminded me that I was now some damn doll.
– Polya! – Marek’s voice came again, louder and more insistent this time. – I’m serious! Hurry up! We can’t afford to be late!
I clenched my teeth again. Yeah, sure. Late. This guy, who clearly has no idea how long this damn routine takes, is telling me to hurry up. Not long ago, I was grumbling at Steph for taking an hour to do her makeup before going out. Funny, right? Now I’m in her shoes. And I could literally feel karma winking at me over my shoulder.
I picked up the blush and brush. This was easier than the mascara, though I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I looked way too dolled up. Well, at least I got through it faster. The final touch was the lipstick. Bright red, as befits the “perfect wife.”
– Well, here we are at the finale, – I said gloomily, opening the cap. The lipstick was intense, as if someone thought I was planning to dance the tango tonight.
At first, I drew the line too crookedly, and then I realized I just didn’t have the patience for these subtleties. When my lips finally took on something resembling shape, I looked in the mirror and felt everything inside me tighten. The woman with bright red lips stared back at me as if she was about to conquer the world. And me? I felt pathetic. Damn, now it feels like these freaking lips are even bigger!
– All done, – I exhaled, standing up from the table.
At that moment, the bathroom door swung open, and Marek walked in. He glanced at me, and his lips twitched in a mix of satisfaction and lazy approval.
– There, that’s more like it, – he said. – Now you look like my Polya.
I swallowed, trying not to explode with anger. His words felt like a punch to the gut. “Your Polya? Screw you!” I wanted to scream, but instead, I just silently grabbed my bag and headed for the door.
– Hurry up, we’re running out of time, – he added, picking up his keys. His confidence and calmness only irritated me more. For him, this was normal. For me, it was pure madness. But I had no choice but to comply.
I walked out of the apartment, feeling the ballet flats click against the floor and my breasts sway with every step, reminding me that this wasn’t a dream—it was my new reality. And no matter how much I tried to fight it, the cameras were watching my every move.