Sick

On the bus on the way to his house, I apply mascara with an unsteady hand. After several outfit changes, I settled on a floral dress paired with my battered grey converse. The pungent 'apricot' scent of fake tan wafts around the perspiring bus, but gives my usually pasty legs a glow and subtle shimmer, making them appear far less chunky than usual. Overall, I'm pleased with my appearance, not that it's myself i'm trying so desperately to impress. Eyelashes sufficiently lengthened, I stow my make up away in my bag and check my phone for messages. One from isobel, asking what I'm doing today. I managed to shrug off yesterday's question by telling her she must have left her phone unlocked and swore I knew nothing about the text. Today I tell her i'm visiting a sick relative. It seems to be becoming apparent that it's me that's sick.