"I hate my face."

"Huh?" he says intelligently.

Why did I marry him again?

I pause from curling a lash into fashionable perfection and glare at his reflection in the vanity's mirror. "I. Hate. My. Face," I enunciate.

He just looks at me from his half-sprawled position on our king-sized bed. Or at least I think he does till I notice he's staring at his own reflection. Egomaniac, I think, and furiously apply more rouge to my cheeks. Funny how the sun-kissed look escalated in popularity just around the time people started keeling over from skin cancer. Didn't they just come out with a line of sun-tanning dolls? Well, get 'em while they're young, I always say.

I appraise myself critically in the mirror and pull out my eye shadow kit. The heavy duty stuff. No natural look for this occasion. I frown slightly, the expression odd, as I'm careful not to scrunch my forehead - what was the occasion again? Was it a movie premier, or a charity event? Maybe an awards dinner this time? I forget, but I know it doesn't matter. It's always the same damn party with the same damn people anyway. Junkies and wannabes the lot of them. I personally prefer the former, they're slightly more interesting than the latter. Which doesn't say much about either group.

I catch him peering at himself in the mirror again, his beautiful features slack, his expression bored and eyes at half-mast. His deep chocolate eyes, the same ones Teen Magazine voted most swoon-able. Or was that Seventeen Magazine voting over his butt? I forget.

He notices the attention and smiles at my reflection. His smile - his gorgeous smile that lights up his face and magically transforms him from an exceptionally handsome man to a heartthrob, a favorite of girls aged fourteen to eighteen, according to a recent survey. Who pays for these idiotic surveys? But his smile has been photographed, filmed and exploited so many times it just reminds me of a toothpaste commercial. I think I actually cried when I heard 'Secret Smile' for the first time, or did I laugh? I forget.

I watch him abandon his reflection in favor of a magazine, his long, capable fingers leafing through the pages with controlled impatience, but he's used to waiting for me so I don't worry. Besides, being fashionably late is back in fashion again.

I turn my attention back to my makeup and carefully brush errant flakes of powder away from under my eyes. Wouldn't want anybody to mistake the eye shadow for crow's feet and think I was aging prematurely, otherwise what would the point of all those expensive French creams and moisturizers be? My God, sometimes I'm so cream-filled I feel like a bloody pastry. I wonder sometimes if my mother ever had to worry about wrinkles at age twenty-six.

"Did you love her?" I ask out of the blue.

He manages to tear himself away from my Vogue magazine to blink incredulously. I watch the play of emotions on his angelic face; surprise, confusion, hurt and finally guilt. Now that little display could have won him the Oscar, or at least gotten him nominated. And we all know what an honor that is.

"Wha..." he finally manages to splutter.

Brilliant, I think, and he wonders why that nasty reporter once offered to sponsor a fundraiser for his poor, struggling brain.

He doesn't have to wonder who 'her' is. He was married once upon a time back when he was still waiting tables and waiting to be discovered. Back when he was dirt poor and made to feel like dirt by those laughing at his dream. They're not laughing any more. But his ex-wife isn't 'her' and we both know it.

He met an actress not long after those people we like to call 'they' finally noticed him. She was young and beautiful and treated him like a person, which was really the only thing that differentiated her from the rest of the young and beautiful actresses. They never admitted to having an affair, the term 'good friends' was used more than once when questioned. And they both enjoyed smiling enigmatically when speculations were made. Usually at each other. He divorced his wife around that time, irreconcilable differences being the formal reason, whatever that meant.

The tabloids had a field day over that, which was only surpassed by the all-out party they had when she dumped him for a younger man. A younger actor, to be accurate. An actor that also happened to kick his ass from here to the MTV awards in the 'Sexiest Man' survey. Or was it the 'Ten Most Beautiful Faces' contest? I forget.

"Did you love her?" I repeat. He's ready for me this time, so I keep my eyes on my own reflection, his would be faked anyway.

"Don't believe everything you read in the papers," he says coldly. I'm pretty sure Jack Nicholson said that in one of his movies. I'm certain he said it better.

I finally rise from the vanity and appraise myself in a full-length mirror, taking in my golden L'Oreal colored hair, because I'm worth it, my perfectly made-up face for whatever occasion this ends up being. My eyes roam down my own body as I survey my golden tanning salon bare shoulders, my surgically enhanced breasts, my gym-toned waist and narrow hips. My outrageously expensive, practically non-existent designer dress that's probably illegal in several states, maybe even this one. Doesn't matter, not many could wear this anyway. Hell, a store mannequin would have to turn anorexic before attempting to fit itself into the damn thing. My silver high-heeled, podiatrist's-nightmare sandals.

I take it all in.

Perfect.

"I hate my face," I say dejectedly.

He rises from the bed and moves towards me with the fluid grace that is the stuff of fan fiction. He looks at me, gazes into my made-up eyes as his hand moves of its own accord to gently stroke the small of my back. He lifts my hand to his lips and gently kisses the palm. "Beautiful," he says, his hand moving to caress my cheek, "your face is beautiful."

I begin to tremble, my eyes filling with tears that I even consider shedding, eye makeup be damned.

He takes my hand in his and right now I think I could follow him anywhere. He turns to look at me again, his smile wide and sparkling, "But the hair is all wrong..."