"You Have Very Good Skin."

The air stewardess suddenly popped up, from behind, by the empty seat beside me. I eyed her warily, uncertainly, and wondered if this was the oily mix of (faux?) friendliness and politeness all flight attendents were paid to ooze.

"What, my face? My pores are huge ..." I told her.

"No, no," she clarified, pointing at my bare arms, "your skin. You have very good skin, very fair and clear."

"Oh," I said. "I haven't seen the sun for a long time ..." (A lie, because I've been seeing sun with UV ratings of 7 and above, but I can't think of any other excuses for my paleness.)

"You must take care of it, you know," she said in a tone that sounded exactly like my sainted aunts', even though she couldn't be more than three years my senior. "Must use sun-block when you go out. You must take care of it."

When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Under the white bathroom light, my reflection looked like something that had been in deep freeze for the last decade: I looked like death warmed over. And I realized I was deathly pale - so pale I would prolly be fucking luminous in a pitch-dark room.

And she thought I had good skin.

My gawd.



(13:25 SGT)