Crock clad and scrolling

 In the waiting room at the clinic there was a baby face woman in her late thirties with blond ginger hair, an extremely pale complexion and her fifteen year old son,
Thin short crocks rocking back and forth off her heals.
A happy go lucky glow over her plump cheeks. Probably where dimples used to sit, before she got so comfortable. How is it that some people are born and go all the way through life with those baby features. Characteristics that continue to show all over her face and body language. Emanating from them like a treatment they took specifically, milky and eternally satisfied.
It looked like she had kept a marshmallow behind each of the cheeks in her mouth. Cozying herself. Her eyes flickered as she scrolled her cellphone in deep trance. Whatever she was looking at she couldn't get enough. One image after the next.
One could imagine this woman as a girl infront of the house she grew up in. That childhood house, The one she would judge every single other one by. Standing infront of the white house in old furry slippers a striped pair of overalls and a soft toy hanging down from her clenched fist.
A resilient look shooting out of her, that died away sometime between today and back then.
Like paint peeling on her house. The new coats her parents refused to repaint, out of a belief that it would raise expectations of them.