once again, a young woman sits down next to me on the subway and goes to town putting on her face. stop after stop she brushes and lines and powders and darkens and lightens, making a stirring racket in her make-up bag each time she goes in there for the next tool. i don’t know why this should annoy me but it does. do i clip my fingernails on public transportaion? trim my moustache? 
she opens another compact and examines it, getting her eye even with the surface and gives it all little puff blowing a kind of peach colored powder onto my trousers. i have my headphones on so i say maybe a little loudly, 
‘hey!!’ brushing my pant leg and a couple of people are looking. 'please don’t blow make-up on my suit.’ 
she says something back i can’t hear but her face says, fuck you, asshole, so i take my headphones off.  
'i’m sorry. what did you say?’ 
'what’s your problem?’ she says again.  
'my problem is i don’t want make-up on my suit.’ 
'i didn’t get any on your suit. why are you so angry?’ 
'why don’t you get dressed at home?’ 
we both look across the aisle and there’s this oldish lady reminds me of bea arthur looking up at us from her book, eyebrows raised over her reading glasses. after a second, she goes back to her book. 
i want to say something like, mind you own damn business. but i don’t.  
we sit in silence and the young woman goes back to putting on more make-up.