The Dressing Table

She sits at her dressing table, watching herself in the mirror as she brushes her hair. There is grey hair at her temples. She notices and shrugs slightly. She is 52.

Light shines in through the gauzy curtains, dust particles float in the air. It's a solitary moment, a time of introspection...something she's been doing a lot lately. She's been by herself so much recently...and now knows the true nature of this thing called loneliness.

She notices the deep wrinkle between her eye brows, and looks at the jowls that are just beginning to show. Her arms are thin, her neck regal, her body provocative and sensuous still. A little thick in the waist, but there are two daughters to show for it, young women who are her life. One day she'll be a grandmother. One day there will be more life to celebrate.

She wonders how she got to where she was...in a stale marriage, living with a man she no longer loves, but who says he loves her every day, many times a day. She knows he loves her as best he can. He takes comfort in her body. Occasionally, she receives it back.

When she told him she was unhappy, he was at first stunned, but then he worked as best he could to mend the broken marriage. It was too little too late. She finally admitted that he would never be a provider, that indeed he was another dependent.

She'd been moving away from him for years. Even while he made more of an effort, it still didn't pay the bills. It was hard to go back to him emotionally now.

She remembered the last Christmas, lean and bleak. The girls were told what to expect, and they were thankful for what they did get. Each little present lovingly wrapped by her, tied with dime-store wire ribbon to make a becoming gift. Wrapped with her effort. Given with her love. A slice of her free time, of which there wasn't much. Quietly and methodically, she had wrapped the little love offerings in the quiet solitude near the Christmas tree, decorated by her alone one lonely evening.

What she got that Christmas - flower bulbs and scented candles - weren't wrapped under the tree, but presented to her on Christmas day, in paper and plastic bags straight from the store, almost an after-thought. The woman was appreciative, but inwardly she felt discounted...as if she weren't important enough for her husband to make an effort to wrap the candles and bulbs. Little things really. She shouldn't be so spoiled, she said to herself.

The woman lays the brush on the mahogony dressing table, picks up a hair comb and secures her hair off her neck with it. Wisps of hair fall around the nape of her neck, so careless, so feminine, so soft.

She looks down at her hands. They show signs of arthritis and gardening and time. She twists the diamond and emerald ring on her left finger, remembering the Christmas he gave it to her. An eternity wedding ring. She was so pleased and in love.

And then the next year their life fell apart. He pulled the rug out from under her financially and emotionally. You could say he went through a midlife crisis, changing jobs - over and over and over again, until he was without work, sitting in the dark for days on end. She was left in serious debt, with the house in her name only, because his credit was never good enough. Another leap of faith on her part to secure the home, make a family. So much on her shoulders.

She continued to work 5 days a week, and picked up a Saturday job at a retail store near the house. Just a few extra dollars, but the message to her husband that she was willing to work harder meant more than the money that second job brought in.

In the meantime she met a man; he was married with grandchildren of his own. They enjoyed each other's company. He was older, wiser, mature and stable. She wished she had someone like him.

He had told her he thought she should stay in the marriage - as he had - for the sake of keeping the family together. He'd witnessed his grandchildren growing and it gave him so much pleasure, and although his marriage was mediocre, watching his family prosper made his personal denial fade away.

So she stayed for the sake of her daughters, such beautiful young women. They knew the disappointment she had experienced, the indignity, the constant failings. They were old enough to understand. But they loved their father. Still, they loved their father.

She thought of talking to her husband just one more time. Maybe some dialogue between them would help now. But talking to him meant nagging - as he would understand it, whihc simply meant he wasn't receptive, he didn't understand. And besides, communicating with him meant more effort on her part. She had no more effort to give. Her effort was spent. She was spent.

Tears fell silently, only a few. Remorseful, tired, and so strangely alone, the woman let the tears drop onto her lap. She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and wondered what would happen if she left him. Would another man want her, find her desirable, love her deeply, and take care of her? The way she had taken care of her husband and her family for so long?

She leaned her head slightly, imagining a man's soft kiss on her neck, his presence so close. Her heartbeat quickened. Maybe she was holding a single rose he'd given her. Maybe he was wanting to go for a walk. Maybe he was whispering in her ear that the bills were all paid. She shivered, and shattered the daydream away.

All she wanted now was for someone to take care of her. She was so very tired of taking care of others.

In the distance the family dog barked, announcing the arrival of the younger daughter from a Sunday trip to the mall. The woman put herself in check, wiped her eyes with a tissue, and straightened her back, her chin held high. There was no more time for self pity.

A little lipstick would do, and she'd get herself back together, and continue the day. Life as it was. She hoped her daughter would not notice her swollen eyes. Rising from the dressing table, she moved to the window amd opened the gauzy drapes wide to let the entire world in.

And then she turned toward her daughter's arrival, and went through the day.