brush with death

Their words were unfamiliar, their faces bright with warrior paint. But the high pitched warbles and toothy smiles were welcoming, so I allowed myself to be seated amongst the swarm of natives. Hundreds of tiny jars and bottles were unearthed and the dazzling pigments applied to my face. The ritual, at first pleasing, induced panic as the markings were drawn over my mouth, my eyes, and my nose. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to break free but their grips tightened and the cooing became angry and impatient. The tribeswomen pinned me down, suffocating me with their smears of battle paint.

I woke up suddenly on the uptown A train. So glad to be awake and on familiar ground, several stops rushed by before I noticed I was carrying an unfamiliar satchel around my wrist. Full of many brightly colored packages and a receipt for $150, the pouch was a glossy black and had neat white letters on its front. I whispered the word to myself, trying unsuccessfully to make sense of that faraway land. What was that place....that Sephora? And who were those inexplicable women?!?