Gloria sits in front of her mirror brushing her hair with smooth, lingering strokes. It's after 2.00am and she still can't sleep. Rising, she throws the brush on the bed behind her and moves towards the window on slippered feet. She pulls back the curtains. Rubs the lace in her hand-stitched drapes between finger and thumb as she leans forwards and presses her cheek to the cool windowpane. And while her skin kisses glass her mind trips back to that hasty morning, trips over words with a sting to her conscience. Trips over all that was said and done. She closes her eyes. Closes her lids and pulls on the curtains. Yanks them so hard they fall at her feet. Then she stretches out and opens the window, tugs at the frame swollen tight with the rain until the window springs open and she staggers backwards. Staggers over the cloth with a lurch in her step, snaring her foot in the folds of the fabric, she kicks her way free with an angry spasm that twitches its way down the length of her leg. Bending forwards with her feet spread apart she gathers the lace into a mass in her arms and steps up to the gaping window. Poking her head out, she checks the street. Twists her head right and left and when she's convinced herself that the street is deserted, she unburdens her arms of the hand-stitched curtains. Unburdens her heart of the fine, white lace. Tipping them forwards she watches them flutter like that unfortunate veil that was whipped by the breeze. Fluttering downwards with nothing to stop them but the cold, dark gutter, clogged with rain. She stands for some moments gazing at the clump of soggy lace like a corpse in the street until a drop of water finds its way from the balcony above to the top of her head. It slides downwards, a solitary drop and she lifts her finger to catch it before it slips from her face. Lifts her finger and watches the droplet spread over her skin before wiping it with against her nightgown with a curious frown. Tilting her chin upwards she stares at the sky. The clouds are breaking, opening pockets of space in the darkened sky which are frayed at the edges. Pulling her head inwards she leans into the swollen frame with her shoulder and closes the window. She turns, walks back towards the mirror propped against the wall and stands before it with her hands by her sides and her head twisting to the side. Stretching her neck, she examines her reflection. Touches her hair where the grey seeps through and dips her head to locate more. But it's not so bad, really. Nothing that a drop from a bottle won't cure. Reaching out she grabs a jar of cream on the dresser, twists the top and dips her fingers into the pearly mixture. Smearing the cream over the tips of her fingers she raises them to her face and slides the mixture over her cheeks and down the sides of her neck. Closing her eyes, she stretches her chin upwards, working her fingers into the folds at her throat. When she opens them again she tilts her head to one side and waits as the smile in the mirror spreads out slowly from the corners of her mouth, lifting her face.
She thought it was best said in a letter. Best mended with the written word. So she pulls out a pen, grabs a few pages and sits down at a desk pushed into the wall. She begins with his name in large, curling letters. Her hand, sloped at an angle, saunters down the page with a distincive, looping script. She mentions her reasons but spares him the details and when she is done she sits back in the chair with her chin held up high in the air. She breathes deeply, releases the pen from her tightening grip and picks up the letter. She reads with her eyes skipping lightly over the swirling words and when she is satisfied she signs her name in a bold, sweeping flourish which covers the page.
Her plan is to step out into the night, deliver the letter and retreat. She doesn't want to see him, she doesn't dare hear his voice and it's not that she'll falter or even think twice, it's just easier. Easier this way. Easier to set it all down, black ink on a page. When he rises in the morning he'll read it and perhaps he'll understand that for a woman like Gloria, there could be no other way. No other way to express those words that leap from her heart and clog in her throat, stammering for existence and yet, she could never spit them out. Never truly let them go. She rises, pushing back the chair with a nudge from her hip and paces to the bureau where she reaches out for the gilt-framed photo on top. Holding it out at arms length she studies the two smiling people caught in the flash. A bare-headed, younger version of herself stares back and her husband, with a restless glint in the corner of his eye, looks out over the top of her head to some distant point on the horizon. Perhaps he'd caught sight of those gauzy wings still flapping on the breeze. Laying the photo face down on the top of the bureau, she turns her back, crosses the room and opens her wardrobe. Slipping the nightdress from her shoulders, she stands naked before the mirror. Naked, except for the slippers on her feet, she dips her head and looks down over her sagging, mottled breasts, over the pitted expanse of belly and shakes her head. Far too late to turn back the clock and reclaim a wasted youth. A wasted youth that was waiting for the click of a key in the lock or a familiar voice in the hallway. Reaching out she grasps her favourite dress with a jerking motion and a tightened fist. She slips it over her head and wriggles the silky fabric down over her shoulders and hips. She turns, left then right, straightening and flattening as she twists her head to view the dress from every conceivable angle. Only when she is satisfied does she step back towards the dresser to pick up a bottle of perfume which she sprays with timid little squirts on her tilted neck and wrists.
She's ready now, finally. After forty odd years, she's ready. She'd made her choice and it was all arranged. They were leaving for Gilbraltar in the morning. She lifts her hand to pat her hair. Lifts her hand to swat the tear that escapes her eye and slips down her cheek but it's too late. Too late for a teardrop. Too late to catch it as it splashes angrily to the floor.
She thought it was best said in a letter. Best mended with the written word. So she pulls out a pen, grabs a few pages and sits down at a desk pushed into the wall. She begins with his name in large, curling letters. Her hand, sloped at an angle, saunters down the page with a distincive, looping script. She mentions her reasons but spares him the details and when she is done she sits back in the chair with her chin held up high in the air. She breathes deeply, releases the pen from her tightening grip and picks up the letter. She reads with her eyes skipping lightly over the swirling words and when she is satisfied she signs her name in a bold, sweeping flourish which covers the page.
Her plan is to step out into the night, deliver the letter and retreat. She doesn't want to see him, she doesn't dare hear his voice and it's not that she'll falter or even think twice, it's just easier. Easier this way. Easier to set it all down, black ink on a page. When he rises in the morning he'll read it and perhaps he'll understand that for a woman like Gloria, there could be no other way. No other way to express those words that leap from her heart and clog in her throat, stammering for existence and yet, she could never spit them out. Never truly let them go. She rises, pushing back the chair with a nudge from her hip and paces to the bureau where she reaches out for the gilt-framed photo on top. Holding it out at arms length she studies the two smiling people caught in the flash. A bare-headed, younger version of herself stares back and her husband, with a restless glint in the corner of his eye, looks out over the top of her head to some distant point on the horizon. Perhaps he'd caught sight of those gauzy wings still flapping on the breeze. Laying the photo face down on the top of the bureau, she turns her back, crosses the room and opens her wardrobe. Slipping the nightdress from her shoulders, she stands naked before the mirror. Naked, except for the slippers on her feet, she dips her head and looks down over her sagging, mottled breasts, over the pitted expanse of belly and shakes her head. Far too late to turn back the clock and reclaim a wasted youth. A wasted youth that was waiting for the click of a key in the lock or a familiar voice in the hallway. Reaching out she grasps her favourite dress with a jerking motion and a tightened fist. She slips it over her head and wriggles the silky fabric down over her shoulders and hips. She turns, left then right, straightening and flattening as she twists her head to view the dress from every conceivable angle. Only when she is satisfied does she step back towards the dresser to pick up a bottle of perfume which she sprays with timid little squirts on her tilted neck and wrists.
She's ready now, finally. After forty odd years, she's ready. She'd made her choice and it was all arranged. They were leaving for Gilbraltar in the morning. She lifts her hand to pat her hair. Lifts her hand to swat the tear that escapes her eye and slips down her cheek but it's too late. Too late for a teardrop. Too late to catch it as it splashes angrily to the floor.
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