The Unwashed One

When I stepped out of the bathroom and looked in the mirror, the glitter from my tear bags to the corners of my eyes was reflecting brilliantly. I usually worry about sunscreen or primer not being washed off because it causes skin trouble, but this is different. With my flushed face and wet hair, I should have been able to delude myself into thinking I looked different, but today, my bare face highlights the gaudiness of my eye makeup, and my eye makeup highlights the dowdiness of my bare face, making me feel sick.

I abruptly invited her to dinner over LINE, and she turned me down gently. We haven't met in about two years, and even two years ago, we had only spoken about three times. But I have compensated for everything else with the strength of my imagination. The explosive power of my imagination, the endurance of my imagination, the repetitive power of my imagination—I possess them all. If there were a national championship for imagination, I would definitely be number one, and I could even aim for the world title.

I don't know what is wrong. Even when I stare at the bare-faced, glittery, goofy-looking girl in the mirror, look down at my slightly protruding belly, or recall the "cute" that everyone at my part-time job and my senior in the club always tells me. If I were her, I would definitely, definitely fall in love with me.