The line outside the bathroom, she could tell (though feigned unawareness to herself), was starting to expand at an alarming rate. But she didn’t care. Her vanity wasn’t going to let her, was far more important than any adherence to something like “social grace.” She had no choice but to keep going with her work. Besides, hadn’t it been some kind of sign that she managed to happen upon a private bathroom in the public space? Wasn’t it obviously some form of divine intervention helping her to look her best? Elise thought so. And even if it wasn’t…fuck it, she needed to improve her outward appearance with the “in case of emergency” tools she had brought along. And this—the state of her face—was nothing if not an emergency. One she had been running around town with all day, thanks to an accursed dermatology appointment.

And though Elise despised such “superfluous” medical rendezvous, this sort had unfortunately become a twice-yearly undertaking as a result of Elise’s porcelain skin. Porcelain skin that only seemed to grow all the more delicate with each passing year. Which is why, after so many “freedom years” spent not worrying about, for all intents and purposes, “dry docking” her body, she was suddenly forced to reconcile how riddled her skin was with visible changes, additional moles and other assorted spots of an unknown nature.

It was only later that she was made to understand that these indiscriminate spots, some of which had the audacity to set up shop on her face (her moneymaker, goddammit!), were basal cell cancer. A phenomenon she had never known about until visiting the dermatologist in her thirty-fifth year. And even the doctor couldn’t help but mention that she though Elise was way too young to incur this form of cancer. An utterance that was of little comfort to Elise, who was starting to believe, now more than ever, in the old adage, “Ignorance is bliss.” Maybe that adage was tantamount to what happens at the end of Final Destination: Bloodlines: only once you’re informed of the truth can you actually believe in it.

That, Elise felt, is precisely what happened to her. Once the truth had been unmasked, in all its unshiny non-glory, Elise had no choice but to buy into it, to give credence to a thing she previously had no idea about. But now that she knew, it was impossible to unknow. Like Eve before her. From the fruit of dermatological knowledge she had bitten, and now there was no going back. Every unbidden mark or mole on her body was, presently, a source of anxiety. So yes, she conceded to semi-annual checkups.

Today was one of those checkups. Hence, the makeup-free look she had effectively been strongarmed into sporting. For she couldn’t very well wear her maquillage to the dermatologist’s only to have to take it off in front of her so that she could accurately assess her skin. Doing that would be like, for all intents and purposes, showing her how the sausage was made. And Elise wasn’t prepared to do that with anyone, even her closest intimate (of which she had none). So she did the next worst thing: appeared without any makeup, stashing her tools and “paints” into her purse so that she might be able to put them on somewhere later. Where, exactly, she didn’t know. What she did know was that it wasn’t going to be in the bathroom at the dermatologist’s office, which had a multi-stall setup, ergo a communal mirror. Elise couldn’t have that. What she was looking for needed to be strictly private.

And by some miracle, she had found it here, in the coffee shop of some gentrified corner of Echo Park. This after driving roughly five minutes from the derma’s on W. Temple. Because, even though she had on what she called her “celebrity sunglasses” (which just meant oversized black shades), the ick of being perceived, even slightly, without her makeup was making Elise beyond paranoid. Every time she was stopped at a light, she kept thinking, Is the person in the car next to me noticing how pock-marked my skin is without an adequate slathering of foundation? Of course, she knew that no one—least of all in L.A.—was ever really looking at anybody except themselves, but still, there was a nagging sense of uneasiness she couldn’t shake. An uneasiness that made her pull over the instant she caught sight of a bougie-looking coffee shop called Marilyn’s Bungalow on Alvarado Street. Indeed, in another sign of the divine intervention at play, a street parking spot opened up just as she was approaching, signaling to her the additional virtue of Marilyn’s Bungalow. That, and their overt pandering to L.A. being an industry town, always interested and attuned to Hollywood history, as epitomized by Miss Monroe.

Although Elise’s hopes hadn’t been very high with regard to actually encountering a private bathroom upon entering, to her delight, she clocked the one-room toilette the second she walked through the door. It was situated near the entrance, and was, even more mercifully, halfway ajar, indicating its open-and-readiness to receive her. To let her apply her maquillage with abandon. Assessing the situation with her darting eyes, Elise noted that none of the employees nor customers were looking at her with any curiosity. No one seemed to expect her to order anything right away, which is exactly why she dashed into the bathroom before anybody could think twice about her presence.

Unloading her bag—her “first aid kit,” as it were—Elise’s methodical and masterful application began. Starting with her shimmery primer first, she then went for the foundation, blending it with the unused sponge she had brought. After she felt it was all satisfactorily blended, she dipped into her brushes to apply a faint layer of blush on each cheek. It was at this point that the annoying (and always jarring) sound and movement of the door handle being jostled startled her out of her groove. So it was happening already, eh? Barely in there a full five minutes and she was interrupted. Didn’t people understand that if the door was locked—indicated by the red color on the outside—they needn’t attempt to “jimmy” it open? Whoever was in it would be out when they were out. But oh no, the impatience of your average human (especially your average city-dwelling human), further spurred by the instant gratification they’d all become accustomed to thanks to smartphones, meant that the door was being “maneuvered” every minute. How could whoever it was waiting not understand that what she needed to do would only take longer if she felt rushed?

And it was taking longer than usual. A lot longer. At home, she could have done this procedure in under ten minutes, but here, she was approaching fifteen. Her hand shaking as she applied another shade of eye shadow to her lid (she always applied at least four different shades for an “ultimate depth and contour” effect). The urgency with which the doorknob kept rattling, paired with the enraged knocking that kept persisting, was frazzling her though—destabilizing “the process,” ergo making it go slower than it needed to.

Finally, after approximately seventeen minutes had gone by, and she was just about to put the finishing touch on her lips, filling in the liner with a coordinating gloss, the door was, to her utter shock, opened without warning. Evidently, an employee had been brought into the matter and used his key to liberate the bathroom from usage by one person for so long. Jesus, Elise thought, America really has become a fascist state. Can’t even stay in the bathroom as long as you want anymore. And right after that “revelation,” she took notice of the massive queue that had formed outside the door in the time since she had gone in. Almost as if everyone in Marilyn’s Bungalow had decided to congregate there precisely because Elise had gone in, and they wanted to make her feel shitty about “hoarding” all the bathroom time for herself. It was a clear case of something suddenly looking appealing only because someone else was using it/in need of it. As far as Elise was concerned, it was almost like these customers had all agreed to conspire against her in an effort to make her look like a selfish bitch when, if anything, she was just a vain one. It wasn’t entirely the same thing (though some would argue that the two qualities go hand in hand).

As she was escorted off the premises, however, she did catch a glimpse of her reflection in the glass door, and, in that instant, she had to admit it had all been worth the public humiliation. Her makeup had never looked better. But then, once she was situated back in her car and took the opportunity to study it in natural light (as opposed to the dimmer, less honest light of the coffee shop’s bathroom) in the mirror of her sun visor, she was appalled. Found it to be garish, cakey, applied with all the deftness of an elderly woman in the dark. Was that who she had become, overnight? As if out of nowhere?

Sighing at the person staring back at her, she forcefully pushed the visor upward, put her sunglasses on and peeled out. She never even saw the other car coming. The one that would crash into her so hard, causing her to smack her face against the steering wheel, that she wouldn’t even dream of bothering to put makeup on for the next few months. Funnily enough, John Lennon’s “Instant Karma” was playing on the radio when it happened. A surefire sign of the universe’s involvement. Because that song never plays on the radio, only choosing to as part of the cosmic retaliation against Elise after she had trifled with so many people’s bladders.