Girls in the Bathroom

I do my best friend's mascara in the bathroom of the funeral house.

I follow her when she stands up, eyes dry and breath shuddering.

Her hands are shaking on my thighs as I smooth out her foundation, layering concealer over the bruises beneath her eyes. I'm sitting on the counter in the chapel's bathroom, pallettes and tubes and brushes scattered around us, and Kit's standing between my knees. One of her fingers curls in my belt loop, tightens til her knuckles are white. I put down the lipstick to hug her.

She doesn't cry, and I don't let go.