Some morning she wished she could just peel the skin from her face. It would be easy, sitting in front of the mirror, she’d work it loose along her hairline, fingers prying, and then, once the seam was split, all she’d have to do is pull down in a consistent, even manner. She’d make sure her face didn’t tear, or crease in case one day she’d want to want to wear it again.
Skinless, under the washroom’s yellow lights, would feel so liberating. She’d have nothing in the past to hold to, and nothing in the future to reach for.