Outside, the rain is driving against the roof,
the side of the building, the pavement.
It has a noise, like a train flying through the yard. A noise, like a throbbing drum beat. It is pushing, pushing, pushing against me.
I am only just, only just there inside my
skin. My atoms are straining, shoving,
pushing against the framework of me and they want so badly to be free. I can feel them shoving, kicking, biting,
straining.
I drink from the glass of water. I roll the mascara wand inside the tube. I force myself to be slow, slow, with the
wand, turning up my eye as the black liquid glides on the underlash; swoosh,
swoosh, the mascara inside the tube again.
Look down, caress the wand over my lower lashes. And now to repeat, slowly, the other
eye. With the outer edge of my right
pinkie finger I smudge the liner, the shadow, blending it into the mascara
line. I reach for a damp washcloth and
gently clean my finger. I am forcing
myself to slow down.
Five tubes of lipstick, and which to
choose? They all go with basic
black. I swipe a bit of Vaseline over my
lips and choose the darkest ruby color.
A last glance in the mirror as I stand from the
dainty poof of a vanity chair. No
feminine perfume. I reach for a men’s cologne,
Bvlgari, and I spray just a bit behind the knees, about the wrists. From the moisture on my left my right middle
finger dabs and carries the mist to the pulse at my throat and then down
between my breasts.
The heavy black felt coat covers the leather
corset and black silk slacks; I wrap a ruby red cashmere scarf twice, three
times around my throat and tuck the ends inside the coat. As I button the coat, I slip the lipstick, a
credit card and a drivers license in the inner pocket. Keys ready, I turn out the lights and lock
the door behind me.
