I'm waiting for my latte at the OOGCP, and there once again is Mr. Hollywood, getting a black plastic lid for his beverage over at the bar. Ooh!, I go to myself, and my eyes search for Mrs. Hollywood, for they are never seen separately.

She is Over There, sitting at the by the window on a tall stool, wearing a faded pink polyester suit with a wavy hem on the pants, and wearing tiny little white boots with many little holes in them. My eye moves up, expecting to see her looking over at Mr. Hollywood, me, or any of the other people in the bustling coffee shop. Instead, her gaze is fixed on nothing; she stares blankly in front of her. It is odd to me when everyone is so close, there is so much chatter and life and busyness all around, so many things to take in.

It is impossible to tell anything from her face. It has been so pulled and plumped and filled and pinched that it has that strange surgery cat look like Joan Rivers or Jocelyn Wildenstein: tiny slits for eyes, pretend cheekbones, and uneven, unreal lips. Nothing moves. Her face is set like a plaster mask in this expressionless void, in the quest of never having to leave what she once was.

Do you become your face? If you lose the ability to show your full range of feelings with expression, do you lose the feelings themselves after awhile? Is your inside tightened and pulled as well?

Mr. Hollywood returns to the window seat with his coffee, and sits next to her. They both stare out the window at the street, saying nothing. I nod and smile slightly at them as I briskly walk past, coffee in one hand, keys in the other, thinking.