Hourglass
Porcelain and Evening Gowns
I curl my fingers around the porcelain, cool, clean, and familiar. Sounds of cars and people drift in through the half-open window, worlds and worlds away. I sigh, images of food spread out before me: bread, cheese, cherries, jam, chocolate. Familiar waves of guilt burn through me, clouding my vision, twisting my stomach. I retch.
I am pitiful, disgusting.
Instinctively, I breathe a sigh of relief. This has gone on for nineteen years. Nineteen years of guilt and hate, redemption and disappointment. I retch again, white porcelain scraping my chin. I used to do this for others: lovers, editors, photographers, designers. Now it’s only me. Me, with my swollen eyes and ragged hair. I don’t know why I bother.
Of course, I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I was somebody. Somebody young, glamorous, and beautiful. There were parties, runways, cameras, colored lights. I heave again, remembering one night clearly, an old sepia photograph beginning to move in my mind.
Enveloped in folds and folds of black satin, I had walked the halls of the estate, crystal champagne glasses catching the light of the hanging chandeliers. My name was on everyone’s painted lips. “Natasha. Natasha Steel.” I felt eyes all around me, turning heads, flashing cameras, jealous whispers, my silk-gloved hand in the crook of his arm. We walked on a glass platform, high above the world, speaking only to each other. “Natasha,” he would whisper, the stubble on his chin tickling my ear, “tonight, you’re the star.” I could only giggle, girlishly. That’s all I was, a girl, his strong arms around my waist, the smell of his cologne intoxicating in the air, his eyes flashing cold topaz.
A world hidden far away in folds of black satin.
I retch again, closing my eyes. An angry taxi horn responds, cutting into the memory. I exhale, slowly, standing and wiping my mouth on my sweatshirt sleeve. Old and frail, I make my way to the kitchen in search of a cigarette. My fingers probe my pockets for a lighter. I must have left it in the bathroom. Sighing, I turn around. The doorbell rings. I stop, my back to the door. The apartment buzzes in silence. I hear a scuffling of small feet in the hall. The doorbell rings again. I fumble with the deadbolt, my hands clammy and stale smelling.
The little girl from down the hall is standing there. Her watery blue eyes wide, gazing upwards, her pink lips parted. A prominent tummy protrudes from beneath an expensive-looking pink sweater. She fingers one of her braids. My cigarette lighter is cupped in her other little hand.
I regard her quizzically, an unlit cigarette hanging out at the corner of my mouth.
I am pitiful, disgusting.
Instinctively, I breathe a sigh of relief. This has gone on for nineteen years. Nineteen years of guilt and hate, redemption and disappointment. I retch again, white porcelain scraping my chin. I used to do this for others: lovers, editors, photographers, designers. Now it’s only me. Me, with my swollen eyes and ragged hair. I don’t know why I bother.
Of course, I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I was somebody. Somebody young, glamorous, and beautiful. There were parties, runways, cameras, colored lights. I heave again, remembering one night clearly, an old sepia photograph beginning to move in my mind.
Enveloped in folds and folds of black satin, I had walked the halls of the estate, crystal champagne glasses catching the light of the hanging chandeliers. My name was on everyone’s painted lips. “Natasha. Natasha Steel.” I felt eyes all around me, turning heads, flashing cameras, jealous whispers, my silk-gloved hand in the crook of his arm. We walked on a glass platform, high above the world, speaking only to each other. “Natasha,” he would whisper, the stubble on his chin tickling my ear, “tonight, you’re the star.” I could only giggle, girlishly. That’s all I was, a girl, his strong arms around my waist, the smell of his cologne intoxicating in the air, his eyes flashing cold topaz.
A world hidden far away in folds of black satin.
I retch again, closing my eyes. An angry taxi horn responds, cutting into the memory. I exhale, slowly, standing and wiping my mouth on my sweatshirt sleeve. Old and frail, I make my way to the kitchen in search of a cigarette. My fingers probe my pockets for a lighter. I must have left it in the bathroom. Sighing, I turn around. The doorbell rings. I stop, my back to the door. The apartment buzzes in silence. I hear a scuffling of small feet in the hall. The doorbell rings again. I fumble with the deadbolt, my hands clammy and stale smelling.
The little girl from down the hall is standing there. Her watery blue eyes wide, gazing upwards, her pink lips parted. A prominent tummy protrudes from beneath an expensive-looking pink sweater. She fingers one of her braids. My cigarette lighter is cupped in her other little hand.
I regard her quizzically, an unlit cigarette hanging out at the corner of my mouth.