an unknown identity

i wrote this a couple of days ago. kind of a short story idea, but too bad it was too short for NaNoWriMo!
It was astounding how easily one person could hide. Diana thought that as she sat on the curb. It was remarkable how easy you could change. Diana was slim, petite. She had hair that was a severe black. It was layered and hanging around her face. Her outfits were normal enough, but somewhat startling. There was a bit of juxtaposition in her clothes, one that Diana deliberately encouraged. The glasses she wore when she absolutely had to were cat-eye, but pink. She was in her late twenties, and currently working as a banker. She was really, your average person. Every bit of her appearance was adjusted to where she could slip through invisibly. However, she had gotten tired of doing so. Of being invisible. That was why her hair was in such an abnormal cut. Why her clothes were just a little different. Why her glasses were odd. It was a certain kind of irony, she was sure. Diana doubted anyone would really notice her, but she might stick in some people's brains. That was what she wanted. To be noticed. Even for a minute.
She aimlessly pulled her hair back off her face, exposing for a moment a small ear whose only character was the number of piercing in it. Just another ironic statement. She let her hair swing back. What was the point? She was in her late twenties. Old. She cracked a smile at that last thought. Not really old, she amended. But too old to be going through teen angst, too late to be trying to rebel. What was the point anymore? Most people her age were robots now, going through the motions of life. Then she thought. I was a robot adult when I was a teen, she thought. How fitting to be going through teen angst in her late twenties. Just another irony to add to the list. Just another juxtaposition in her life.
Somehow her brain got back on the original topic, which had everything to do with her present topic. Think it through she remembered reading somewhere. Never go in there without a battle plan. And don't forget a backup plan. It had to have been in one of those manuals that she dimly remembered reading. That was how her entire life had worked. She had thought it through. She had never gone in without a battle plan. She had always had a backup plan. And somewhere there had been a successful mission, a pat on the back. Now she was too anonymous for that.
She looked at the house behind her. It was just another piece of suburbia. White paneled house. One story. Garage. Driveway. All you needed for invisibility. Of course, the house had its juxtaposition, too. The grass was approaching a foot long now. The door was a bright, angry red. The car in the garage was a bright blue beetle with random stickers all over it. That, and a habit she had picked up for playing the electric guitar on her own amps. Pretty high volume, too. Rock was only good if it played up your emotions or swamped them. You needed lots of noise for either. Eventually the neighbors would stage a riot, she decided. Come in a t midnight and cut the grass. Repaint the door while she was at work. It didn't matter. It was her own bit of anger, for the world to see. If they didn't like seeing it, that was their problem.
She was clutching a handful of photographs. One was of a brunette. Conservative, obviously an academic, she was smiling shyly at the camera. Another was of a platinum- haired woman wearing too high heel and loud, a stylish clothes. The next, of a beautiful redhead. Well, maybe beautiful was too strong a word. She was vivid, with an energy that seemed to be staring at you through the camera. Yet there was an undercurrent of unrest there, too. She dropped the pictures, watching them float through the air. Three women. Each her own personality. Gone now. In her line of work, these people were nothing. Identities could be changed as easily as clothes, and often were. Personal lives were a figment of the imagination. Diana had lived in that mind set for almost thirty years. Maybe it was not too late to find truth.
She stood up. It was not too late to find truth. Well, then, she had a search to go on. Then she had a thought that made her laugh. Her entire life, her job had been to find the truth. But maybe that wasn't truth. Maybe this, perched on the edge of her life with her wings stretched wide, was truth. Just another irony of life.
Two hours later, another woman emerged from the house of suburban angst. She had dark brown that had no specific color. It was in fifty million different layers around the general area of her shoulders. She was wearing clothes that looked casual and yet at the same time had authority. Her glasses were thin half-moons, pushed up as a headband. This woman had once had an identity by the name of Diana, but had had another name once. It had been a truer, better name. Yet it had been forgotten. This woman was the older version of Diana the teen. This woman had anger, bottled up somewhere deep inside. This woman had anger and fear so great it could never be really released. It had come out in little splashes. Though. Like the red door. You could feel that emotion, somehow. It was a vibe she was sending out. People could mistake it for different things, but that undercurrent was there. It warned them away.
She had the most connection to the shy collegiate picture, but she was all of them at once. She was the loud blonde, wanting an outlet. She was the redhead, with the same feel of danger and mystery and anger and fear. She was Diana, with a love of noise for the sake of the loudness. And yet, her steps had a purpose none of them had ever felt. Her head was looking forward in a way none of them had ever had the courage to look. She was looking out at the fall day that so perfectly suited her triumph. It was one of those where it threatens to rain, but never does. The fog hangs, but never truly engulfs. Each blade of grass was sprinkled with dew, despite the fact that it was late afternoon. The sky was an unassuming gray. Trees were halfway through with the process of losing leaves; leaves that seemed to be damp and wilted from the day. It was absolutely still.
This was a better day than a bright, sunny day. That was the day the happy truth came in on, the truth that was false because of the fact that it was true. This was better than a crisp winter day, where it was all covered up by something beautiful. This was a day that refused to do anything in your favor. It was a day with too much grandeur and power to put on a show of beauty for the truth. And yet, there was a kind of truth in the very way it showed itself. There was a grudging honesty that the woman liked.
Her life still had a few oddities, but she thought she had gotten rid of most of them. The rest she welcomed with open arms. Those juxtapositions made her who she was. That was why she was going off to look for truth on a truthful day in a truthful way wearing her truthful identity- at least, as truthful as she could figure out. But that was part of the truth, was it not? Anything that was pure truth was deceiving itself: better to have a truth that had an honest lie in it somewhere. That was how she saw the world. She strode straight ahead, willing to let the truth show itself to her. That was part of her searching so diligently, wasn't it?
She stepped off the curb and crossed the Suburbanite Street to the other side. Maybe the chicken was looking for truth, a small part of her brain thought.
The gun was there, waiting for her. It was attached to a person that would be invisible in every sense of the word. Brown hair, straight glasses. Briefcase, tie, suit shirt, creased pants. The only thing visible was the gun. The woman smiled at him. This was part of the truth. Who knew the chicken’s idea had been this easy? “Hello.” she said to the man. “What’s your identity today?” he considered for a moment. “Call me Paul, Glinda.” so that was it. Her real name. Her real identity. Another piece of truth. Also, she had to know this man from somewhere. But where? Something sparked in her brain. It was from so long ago, but she had had a photographic memory. Part of the reason they had hired her...
“hello, peter Tarson. Have you seen truth?” “Not since third grade.” he answered. “That’s when they told us Santa was false and that the chicken got run over on the road.” yeas, that was truth, all right. The chicken did get run over. Why didn't she remember that part of the joke?
Her lips were on his and they were kissing like lovers when the gun went off at her chest.