Mirror

She pushed silver hooks through her puckered earring-holes and watched the stones (only cubic zirconium, but luminous in the yellow light of the bedroom lamp) jangle mid-throat then rest along her neck. She ran her hands under the running tap, rubbed them together, and placed a dollop of mousse on her palm. She tilted her head back slightly and worked the hair backward into a loose bun, which she secured in back with a cubic zirconium tipped bobby pin. She titled her head forward again and let several pieces of hair fall in bowlegged chunks around her cheekbones.

Alexander had laid out three dresses on the bed for her to choose from. When she first came home from work, she was startled to see them smoothed out and laid so precisely across the bed, empty arms folded across the flat chests, as if he‘d been trying to impress her with his careful handling of her dresses. He’d never seemed to take much interest in what she wore before. Sometimes he would compliment her, but only if she held her body in a way that asked for compliments. He was good at interpreting the signs. When she wore something terrifically low-cut or high he would look, as any man would, but he didn’t recognize the aesthetic as a thing worth noting aloud.

All three dresses were black, and all low-cut. But not too low-cut, just low enough to show a little shadow-darkened chest, the hint of a crevice. One dress skimmed her knees and swung around her hips in thin, loose fabric. One was an a-line dress that hugged her legs down to mid-calf. The next went up to mid-thigh, though it balanced out by being more modest at the top than the other two; it ended a full inch above the beginning of her bust line in a square neck. She chose the dress in thin fabric and stepped into the swampy air of the bathroom. Alexander was shaving above his Adams Apple. She listened to the scrape of the blade as he pushed it in quick strokes across his wire-thick hair. It sounded to her like a fish being scaled. The sound, inexplicably, made her teeth hurt. His eyes flitted to her reflection in the mirror, then returned to his own face, florid in the damp air.

“I found the dresses you laid out for me,” she walked over next to him and bumped his thigh lightly with her own, “am I auditioning for a cocktail waitress position?” She smiled toothily and he did a quick lifting of the corners of his lips in return.

“Well, I just thought you wouldn’t want to look like a librarian at our first company party.”

She laughed and placed her hand firmly on his towel-wrapped thigh to push him aside. She reached down for her zippered make-up case under the sink.

“Does my wardrobe usually consist of knit cardigans with wide pockets full of red pens?” He didn’t answer, but flickered his lips again in her direction.

She picked out a tube of mascara and a tube of lipstick from her makeup bag. The lipstick was her usual neutral brown, she didn't much like bright colors or the frequent upkeep they required. Not to mention the attention they would draw to an otherwise totally utilitarian face. She didn’t like the idea of people ogling her as though she was rainbow. She pulled a necklace from the zippered pocket within her makeup bag. It was her mother’s necklace, the kind of necklace you rarely see anymore. The charm was a marble-sized ball of what looked like yellow glass. At close examination you could see a tiny seed in the middle of the charm, drab enough to be a mistake, an imperfection in the crystal. It was a mustard seed encased in a dollop of amber. The amber hung from a coarse silver chain down to about a half-inch from her breasts.

She could feel Alexander watching her, though she was now blinking and swabbing her stubbornly thin and stumpy eyelashes into the long, ferny lashes the mascara advertisement promised.

“Do you plan to wear that necklace?” Alexander spit the words out quickly, then occupied himself again with scraping and rinsing. She felt criticism in the question, though she couldn’t place its source.

“Yes, that’s why I put it on. You don’t like it.” It was a statement, not a question. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pink from the pre-makeup scrubbing she’d given it earlier. With her hair pulled back you could see the brightness in her cheeks, the round glow of her face. She looked too young. The necklace seemed like an ornament of adulthood- it pulled all that soft pinkness down in a vertical sweep. It gave her a literal angle.

“It just emphasizes your chest. I didn’t think you’d want to look trashy.” His voice was leaking something impalpable, something wild he was trying to beat back with his will. A flush of cold paled her cheeks at the word “trashy.” It seemed almost like a curse from his mouth, like Bitch or Cunt. She hadn’t noticed that the necklace skimmed the top of her breasts of that it might lead eyes there. She had an irrepressible urge to pull the fabric of her dress together and hide the wide expanse of her chest. She clutched the swaying bauble instead and stared hard at the scatter of cosmetics on the counter. She steadied herself and recommenced her struggle with the mascara.

“I think this dress does more to emphasize my décolletage than the necklace ever could, my dear,” she concentrated on applying a layer of black to her lower lashes, “Should I change my dress if you’re so worried about it?”

He rapped the head of his razor against the sink and ran the tap over the blades. The basin filled with hot water. Its steam rose up into her eyes, but she did not blink.

“No, damn it, I like the dress. I’m not trying to start a fight with you. I just thought you’d like to know how you look to other people.”

Again, she was struck by the strangeness of his words, the agitated hum underneath them. She suddenly wanted very badly to wear the necklace. She didn't answer him.

She threw the tube of brown lipstick back in the zippered bag and rummaged at the bottom for a lipstick she’d worn only once before. It was a color she never used. She’d bought it a week before her honeymoon, on the whim. It cost at least five dollars more than her usual shade and came in a slim metal case, shaped like a bullet. She liked the sleekness of it, liked what the packaging promised; beauty that was borderline dangerous.

When she twisted the base, the color rose in a precisely slanted point. The tip was dappled with moisture from the musky air of the bathroom. The base said, in gold foil, “Berry,” and under the lights, beaded with water, it did indeed look like a misshapen grape, something darkly red, almost purple, the color of grapes pressed for red wine. She traced a careful path of lipstick along the bow-tie of her lips and pressed her top lip to her bottom one, smearing the color in.

“I’m wearing the necklace.” She concentrated on her lips, the sheen and whorish brightness of them. He busied himself with toweling off and steeping into his pinstriped pants.

“Do whatever you want.” He was also looking down.

They did not speak for twenty more minutes while they both readied themselves for the party. She checked her lipstick again and again, reapplied it, wiped it off, reapplied it. She could hear Alexander scoop the ring of keys from their place on the corner table into his palm.

“I’m getting in the car now, I’ll wait for you. Please hurry or we’ll be late.” He seemed almost cheerful now that the fight was over in his opinion. His was implacable. She’d have to hurt him badly to raise rancor in him, if she ever wanted to.

She hurried out into the hallway, grabbing her jacket and purse on the way. She stopped by the mirror hanging in the hallway and checked her face again. Her eyes were lidded pink from the misting of tears that muscled out (despite her efforts) while she was in the bathroom. Her lips bled color all along the little wrinkles on her mouth. All the wiping had made the surface of her mouth look like rumpled tissue paper. She smeared the last layer of color with the back of her hand and wiped her hand on the inside fabric of her dress. Her chest was dappled with freckles. She felt the resistance of her body, its loss of elasticity. Like me, it no longer bends. She plucked the earrings from her ears and laid them down on the table, then unhooked her mother’s necklace and laid it on top of the earrings. The pile of jewelry gleamed on the table, haphazardly, like a little pile of treasure dropped behind. She locked the door as she left and extinguished the front porch light.

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Selected poetry by Ariana Rink and John Williamson:

http://www.lulu.com/content/2956099

HippoHead

read the first couple of paragraphs and got bored. You need to work on your opener, as it does not hook.

edropus

I had a very difficult time getting to the good parts, and there are good parts. You have a nice grasp of emotional description and your dialogue is pretty natural. I only have one beef, and it's a huge beef - the makeup/hair/dress descriptions. You spend almost as much time on them as you do on the characters and dialogue. It's extremely distracting, and maybe this is just because I'm a guy, but I simply don't care about the kind of makeup or the way she puts it on. I skipped over a few paragraphs like that, and every time I skip a paragraph I want to continue reading less and less. The first and third paragraphs both made me stop reading, but I came back both times, and am glad I did.

Don't just take my word for it. See if others agree. If they do, and most importantly, if YOU agree after it's been pointed out and you've re-read it, rewrite it.

There's a good voice here. I'd like to hear more of it directly, and less of it describing things.

Mirror

HippoHead-

Thank you for your advice. I find it perfectly valid. I will introduce a stronger opening in the rewrite. Appreciated.

edropus-

Thank you very much for reading and commenting. I quite agree that it lacks in scope. Perhaps, I could extend it into something grander than a woman dressing for her husband's company party; this way, the make-up parts would not occupy so much space. I inserted them to show her self-consciousness, her complacency in certain places, and insecurity in others. But, it certainly does not need as detailed a description. I will edit the piece once I receive a few more replies. Much appreciated.

Best,
Mirror

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Selected poetry by Ariana Rink and John Williamson:

http://www.lulu.com/content/2956099

starStuff

is this a small piece of a larger work, or is it meant to stand alone?

Either way, I agree with what HippoHead and edropus have said. It gets very wordy. Too wordy. Some of the descriptions drag on, and the imagery loses its luster. Its much like, as a child, being hurried through your favorite store by the rigid hand of your parent. You are leading the reader too much, in my humble opinion.

Certain descriptions can be tightened up, leaving room for the reader's imagination to breath. Others can be omitted. The first paragraph can be reduced to maybe two well structured lines. The third can be shortened significantly as well. Another example is when he is shaving, you specifically pointed out that he was shaving above his adam's apple. Although I appreciate the details you want to illuminate, i felt it was unnecessary and even distracting. Also when she was putting on the necklace. The descriptions of the expensive lipstick were excessive; you could have stopped at "It cost five dollars more than her usual shade."

I read through the entire piece because I enjoyed your voice and i wanted to see where it was going. Many of your paragraph long descriptions of her actions can be shortened to a couple or three lines. This way, you could expand upon the dialogue and really draw the reader in emotionally to the tension building in this relationship over such a seemingly trivial matter. I understand that in relationships emotions can get high over simple matters. I'd like to see more of that.

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Please read and critique my Novella-in-Progress, tentatively titled:
The Gadon Stone
Prologue
Chapter 1: The Library

Chapter 2 is in the works. These are posted in the Critique and Advice forum here.