The Hug
The Hug
Flakes of red get caught in the deep ravines of her upper lip as her shaky hands ritualistically drive a bullet of lipstick across them, like a carriage over cobblestones. The wings of her eyeliner are wonky these days, distorted by the wrinkled folds of her eyelids which over the years have slowly started to swallow her view of the world. A potent fragrance, dabbed onto the nap of her shrivelled neck warns her grandkids of an imminent and overzealous hug to be bestowed upon them–which they must, if begrudgingly, accept. It’s a scent that for the first 20 years of their lives they will associate with tedium–but for the next 20 it will provoke nostalgia for the warmth of a real hug.