Shuffle

It's the shuffle that undoes her. La da da, la da da da da... melodic melancholy, the combination that swells her heart and fills her eyes with tears she lets roll down her face the way only actors do in movies. For a  moment she wonders if she should wipe the raccoon stained makeup from under her eyes, clear the corners of the black gobs, that salty, pearlized waste, the detritus of a half hour's concerted effort to make herself attractive. Alluring. Worthy. In real life, pain is messy; sadness undoes all her hard work.  She's uncomfortable to witness. Strangers are stumbling head on into the dark night of her soul, in full red eyed, puffy lipped, snot nosed display. She knows better, she thinks, than to put herself on display like this. Billboard like, she stands immovable to the throngs milling around her, on their way to who knows where. Headphones on, eyes half shut, her lips move almost imperceptibly to the music. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recalls building this playlist, thinking at the time she should skip this song, the entire album. Leave the box next to it empty, unchecked, unplayable.