Imagine, just for a moment, a tube of lipstick. It sits, a silver bullet in the darkness of a closed drawer, abandoned and forgotten. Surrounding its shell filled with ruby cream, lays an assortment of odds and ends. A hairbrush, a compact mirror, maybe even an antique family watch.
The lipstick print was bright red on the white coffee cup. She glanced at the clock – it had been an hour already, and still she sat, legs crossed, eyes blank, fingers strangling her paper receipt. Suddenly, a busboy appeared. Her expression changed in the twitch of a second hand. Would she like anything else? The woman beamed at the young boy, shaking her head no. As though recalling the time, she reached for her purse and felt for her lipstick. She struggled for a moment, frustrated with the idea of being unable to reapply her make up, but then gave up and left the café, losing her print on the cup to the busboy and the last dregs of coffee within.
On a shining granite countertop sits a shining set of keys. They wait, rather dejectedly, on the little island in the middle of an unorganized kitchen. When the sun hits them, they sparkle.
While walking hurridly through the streets, she began to dig through her bag, until she stopped and sighed in exasperation. A stranger passed and asked if she was alright. Again the smile, the bright eyes appearing where seconds ago there was dark. Its nothing, she said, its just I think I may have lost my keys again – her feigned laugh kissed the air – thank you though.
Now picture this: a picture frame. Instead of on its side, like the lipstick, or splayed out in the open, like the keys, the picture frame rests on its glass face. It sits on the top shelf of a closet, up where even the dust doesn’t dare collect. Though if you were to look for it, all you would see was the black sheet of cardboard holding the picture in its place, I can tell you what’s underneath. The picture is of a man and a woman. The woman is laughing – as though at a wonderful joke – her lips, ruby red, and her eyes laughing as hard as her mouth. To her left, stands a man. His posture is relaxed and his eyes full of the easy confidence that comes naturally to a rare few. His hand rests on her waist, and her eyes rest on the world in his smile.
In the death rattle of her carefree laugh to this stranger, she saw him. Her him. Fluid and solid, strong and soft. He moved towards the stalling taxi cab as though he were meant to sit in its leather seats all along. His steps seemed soaked with confidence, the air left in his wake, saturated with ease. With each inaudible twitch of the ever-moving second hand on the antique watch in the closed drawer, her smile fell a fraction of an inch. The light in her eyes was extinguished like a candle, the smoke rising in the dark blankness of her face. His voice –it rang with the promise of a picture perfect joke - was the last thing she heard before the yellow metal door closed on her life. She stood on the sidewalk. Turning back to the now empty space once occupied by the stranger, she flipped on her composure with all the artificial quality of a cool electric light.
The lipstick print was bright red on the white coffee cup. She glanced at the clock – it had been an hour already, and still she sat, legs crossed, eyes blank, fingers strangling her paper receipt. Suddenly, a busboy appeared. Her expression changed in the twitch of a second hand. Would she like anything else? The woman beamed at the young boy, shaking her head no. As though recalling the time, she reached for her purse and felt for her lipstick. She struggled for a moment, frustrated with the idea of being unable to reapply her make up, but then gave up and left the café, losing her print on the cup to the busboy and the last dregs of coffee within.
On a shining granite countertop sits a shining set of keys. They wait, rather dejectedly, on the little island in the middle of an unorganized kitchen. When the sun hits them, they sparkle.
While walking hurridly through the streets, she began to dig through her bag, until she stopped and sighed in exasperation. A stranger passed and asked if she was alright. Again the smile, the bright eyes appearing where seconds ago there was dark. Its nothing, she said, its just I think I may have lost my keys again – her feigned laugh kissed the air – thank you though.
Now picture this: a picture frame. Instead of on its side, like the lipstick, or splayed out in the open, like the keys, the picture frame rests on its glass face. It sits on the top shelf of a closet, up where even the dust doesn’t dare collect. Though if you were to look for it, all you would see was the black sheet of cardboard holding the picture in its place, I can tell you what’s underneath. The picture is of a man and a woman. The woman is laughing – as though at a wonderful joke – her lips, ruby red, and her eyes laughing as hard as her mouth. To her left, stands a man. His posture is relaxed and his eyes full of the easy confidence that comes naturally to a rare few. His hand rests on her waist, and her eyes rest on the world in his smile.
In the death rattle of her carefree laugh to this stranger, she saw him. Her him. Fluid and solid, strong and soft. He moved towards the stalling taxi cab as though he were meant to sit in its leather seats all along. His steps seemed soaked with confidence, the air left in his wake, saturated with ease. With each inaudible twitch of the ever-moving second hand on the antique watch in the closed drawer, her smile fell a fraction of an inch. The light in her eyes was extinguished like a candle, the smoke rising in the dark blankness of her face. His voice –it rang with the promise of a picture perfect joke - was the last thing she heard before the yellow metal door closed on her life. She stood on the sidewalk. Turning back to the now empty space once occupied by the stranger, she flipped on her composure with all the artificial quality of a cool electric light.
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