He suddenly pulls her close to give her a kiss. She leans in. Just before her lips meet his, she violently jerks away. “Pink!” She points to her perfectly lined lips in cotton candy pink. The brutality of her rejection scared me, the by-stander. He lets her go with indulgence and resignation.

Couldn’t she have turned her face slightly and let his kiss land on her cheek, preserving the flawless facade she spent hours perfecting and allow him to adore her at the same time? Puckered her lips for a peck instead of mad lip lock, him eating her lipstick for dinner? Couldn’t she?

A not so invisible hand pushes us towards perfection; I would know, I’ve long been a mistress of propaganda, an agent for the devil. But when love has been won, and he wants to adore you, candy pink and all, does that not the simple act of love out weight all thing else? Or are we so good at our jobs, we’ve turned her vanity from sport to instinct?