Washing my hands at the bathroom sink. Concrete floors, lockers down one wall in cheery industrial colours. A bank of showers left from the previous occupants of the factory-cum-movie-studio.

A woman at the next sink over. An extra? An actor? I catch glimpses of her lowered face in the mirror. Her hair is ironed perfectly straight, a slash of golden sun in the thin blue fluorescent light. She wears loose grey sweatpants, costuming issued, and a honeycomb waffle housecoat, white.

My thrift store sweatshirt has smears of casting rubber impregnated into the front. I wash my hands, but there's a finite amount I can do to the flakes of silver leaf adhered to my wrists.

"Fuck."

The word hits the mirror like spit, and I look over.

The actress has yanked aside her housecoat, exposing one perfectly round breast. It's pert, young, barely more than a handful. She runs water over a piece of scratchy brown paper towel and scrubs at her chest, just above her breast.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck." She runs the water again, and scrubs, smearing the black shadow over her skin. She is careful not to damage her long fake nails.

She smiles ruefully at me, but doesn't cover herself up.

"We had name tags," she explains. "The sharpie must have leached through." She scrubs. The skin is getting pink.

Lighter fluid, methyl hydrate, my brain runs through chemicals to remove sharpie, isopropyl...

"Yeah, talk to make-up," I say. "They'll have some rubbing alcohol. It'll come right off."

She sighs, throws out the paper towel, and readjusts her housecoat.

"Figures," she laughs. "First day and I'm already a problem."

I smile and hold the door for her as we both head back to work.

.

Rosie

Before&After