He balls up the tissue and tosses it in the trash. Ignoring my argument, he picks up the mascara and unscrews the top. “Hold still,” he says. Then with steady hands and a relaxed expression, he applies the mascara to my right eye. I can hardly move. There’s something so cool and confident about the way he does this, as if he owns me. As if I’m just a thing for him to dress up and play with. And oddly…it calms me. “Look up,” he commands, and I obey. Crowding so close to me that I can feel his breath on my face, he flicks the brush against my lashes. Then his eyes meet mine, and he seems so
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