Stepping through the corridor, entering through the main door, she puts her bag to the side and crashes herself onto the sofa. The tie of her hair comes loose, her feet go up on the table, and the remote gets picked off the cushion, channels switching mindlessly, one after another, going nowhere in particular.
Nearly an hour later, she picks up her phone and bag, switches off the TV, and wanders up the stairs into her room. She takes out the dress she had set aside for the dinner party, looks at it for a moment, and sets it aside again, pulling out a loose shirt instead. Pajamas tucked under her arm, she disappears into the bathroom. The next hour of life is surrendered entirely to the shower, as is the deep, unspoken ritual of the woman she is. She steps out, and the air fills immediately with a dozen layered scents, hair products, body wash, softener, conditioner, gels. And it doesn’t end there, of course. The post-bath routine follows, then the skincare, then the hair, dried and styled carefully to suit whatever the evening calls for.
The jewelry and shoes come next. Considerable thought goes into both. Once settled, she goes down for her light evening meal. A few calls, a few chats with friends, enough unwinding has finally happened. It is, at last, time to get ready.
The rollers come off first. Curls, softer and more deliberate than anything effortless, fall and settle around her face. Makeup follows, then jewelry, then shoes, each choice made with the quiet certainty of a woman who knows exactly what she is doing. When it is all done, she is the most luminous thing in the room. The handbag gets pulled from the cupboard, and off she goes. Out of the room, down the stairs, through the front door, out of the gate.
The woman gets into the car parked outside.
And somewhere behind her, she is still standing at the top of the staircase, watching.
On the opposite wall hangs a mirror. She can feel every feeling never felt by the woman who just left. Everything she had perhaps ever wished for, hoped for, turned over quietly in her mind for years. The distant roar of the car engine is heard one last time before it fades entirely. And slowly, her eyes travel up to meet the mirror.
Perhaps the same dress. The same shoes. The same face, even. What gives that woman freedom and radiance brings only confinement and shadow to her. She finally locks eyes with the figure in the glass. All she can see is another woman’s image.
