Washed Away

I rushed in to a truck stop, three a.m. I desperately needed a coffee and a rest room visit.

I stood alongside her at the mirror. She leaned in deeply over the sink next to me, peering at herself, wide-eyed, scrutinizing her image under the merciless fluorescent light. She was oblivious to me.

I tried not to stare.

She reached for the soap dispenser beside her on the wall, filling both palms with the industrial strength liquid. Then she squirted out more until it spilled over her hands and on to the counter. She spread it over her face methodically, up to her hairline, then down to thickly coat her neck and cleavage.

Her diaphanous gown grazed the floor. Her silver heels were perilously high.

Her collarbones protruded like signposts. She may have been 17.

Do you want some coffee? Some food, I asked, quietly, trying not to infer judgement.

She turned to me, her face still traced with suds. “No. Thank you, Ma’am.”

It was a tone that efficiently headed off anything more. Of course, she was a past master at this, this shutting down.

Who waited for her in the parking lot? In which truck? On what heading?

She needed to eat. How her face must have stung.

She’ll have snagged her dress on those heels.