The Train

I am sitting on a train, hurtling through the wee hours of the night back to the city that I live in. The train isn't scheduled to arrive until 2-ish. The city will be asleep. Almost no one has caught this train, the last one on this route tonight. A beautiful young woman sits across from me, oblivious to her natural beauty. You can see that she's had a hard life. The snippets of conversation I overhear tell me that she thinks she has limitations. Despite the hour, as we approach the city she's pulled out a makeup case and begun to apply elaborate makeup. It's not a bit of lipstick to meet a lover after catching a late train home, but rather full face: powder, blended shadow, blush, mascara, brows, lipliner. She's so young, in her Chuck Taylor's and skinny jeans and ironic t-shirt. But multiple tattoos peek out from her clothing and run down her arm. They're good quality art, but they give her an edge that is beyond her years. The makeup is expertly applied, but way more than she needs. She was gorgeous without it. She smiles at her texts, brushes her hair then begins to use a flat iron on it, and I wonder, where will she sleep tonight?