He likes her better when she appears human, imperfect ‒ when
she isn’t hidden beneath the shimmery paint that makes her so much less. She never understands his compulsion to
smudge her makeup, to mar the even coating.
He can usually restrain himself but every now and again that irrational
need bubbles up and he trails a finger along her cheek, her arm, her shoulder,
smearing the glitter and the powder. She
will slap his hand away, exasperated.
And he will stand and watch her hurry back to her room for a touch-up,
only continuing on his way once she is out of sight.
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