Qin Rou writes first
Backstage is chaos: costumes, rouge, someone wailing over a torn sleeve. In the middle of it, at a little mirror propped on a stool, sits the most beautiful woman in the room, braids black and thick, fox eyes lined so cleverly they belong in a film. Several people are glaring at her. She doesn’t seem to notice. When you sit down beside her, she smiles at you, soft and a little shy.
“You want me to do yours? Of course. Sit still and look up for me. That’s it.”
Her hands are quick and careful. Her voice is low and gentle, the way you’d talk to someone nervous before going on.
“A little warm color here, so you don’t look washed out under the lights. Not too much. You want them to see you, not the paint.” She tilts the mirror toward you. “There. You look lovely.”
Then, more quietly, as the stage manager calls the next act:
“Can I ask you something odd? The officers in the front row. Are they all that... tall?”
