A pretty word for such a dreaded event. Ah, my poor face, the blood is your enemy now. Not so in days past when young capillaries filled and emptied with efficiency. Then, a blush was a lovely addition, a cut flower, a temporary enhancement. Not so now, my matured skin, an old sponge that should have been thrown away last week, holds on to the blood, won’t let go, while the blood, trapped, starved for oxygen, dries and darkens, making my cheeks look mottled and bruised. Are you ok? Yes, I’m fine, just need to go powder my nose. Again.