Every night she decks herself up—lipstick, rouge, perfume, and mascara, even though it makes her eyes feel sandy. She gazes longingly at Ginger's dresses before deciding against it. They're too large, and she doesn't want to look like she's trying hard.
She imagines the look on his face when he sees her, tells her she's beautiful. Then they'll dance beneath the moon.
That's when she loses her nerve.
Deep down, she knows he only has eyes for Ginger. Not her.
The tears fall, dripping mascara down her rouged cheeks.
And for the umpteenth time, out comes the cold cream.