Abilene's Vanity

A woman sat at a vanity. The small room had been the second walk-in closet attached to the master suite. She'd had it remodeled as her own little corner of the expansive bathroom. The floor gleamed white, tile shined perfectly. Fluffy burgundy rugs were scattered about. She sat upon a plush, cream-colored, cushion on a small mahogany stool. She wore a thick robe, white as pristine as the floor. It hung open revealing a black negligee. The vanity matched the stool, the wood dark and beautifully grained. The carved inlay surrounding the mirror was ornate, intricately detailed, with a mathematical precision that hadn't worn away over the years.

The mirror laid flat against the wall, cavernously hungry, as every day. She didn't look at it. The tabletop was littered with accessories, all swathed in the same cream as her cushion, sitting like pillows on the harsh surface of reddish brown wood. The porcelain jewelry box sat squat and heavy in the middle, its removable lid askew. The gems inside glittered metallic in the dim light.

Her face was thin and long, her hazel eyes set too far back in her head, giving her undereyes a perpetually gray tinge. It also had the unfortunate side effect of making her nose and jaw seem more prominent. Her hair was still a wet mess from the bath, but when it dried it would be a frizzy auburn.

She didn't look at the mirror.

She looked at her hands, pink, with stubby fingers. She rolled a cigarette between the thumb and forefinger of her hand. She raised the filter to her lips, let the tip of her middle finger slide against her lower lip, feeling a disconcerting dryness instead of the familiar gloss of her red lipstick. She sat that way for some time, fiddling with the silver lighter in her other hand, opening and closing, flicking it on, watching the flame burn.

A man entered, hung in the doorway quietly.

She sighed. She set the cigarette beside the empty ashtray at the front corner of the vanity. She flipped the top onto the lighter, sat it amidst the knickknacks, stared at its metallic discontinuity with the taupe collection, her lips pursing. She took an extended amount of time to shift her gaze to him. She didn't look at his eyes. She examined his appearance with increasing dissatisfaction.

He had a deep tan. He wore a white tank top and a pair of jeans. His white tennis shoes were scuffed. He had well-defined muscles, but his legs and arms were so long he still looked lanky, the perennial teenager. He had a strong face with baby eyes, blue, with a penchant for dance. There was that tuft of feathery yellow hair falling into his eyes, as always. He was taking a bite of a green apple, rebellious as he crunched away at it throughout her lengthy inspection.

"Must you eat like that?" she complained in a sharp voice, overly careful in pronouncing each word. Her eyes were glacial on his.

He rolled his eyes. "I like apples, Abilene," he reminded her, bored of the same routine, the same situation in a new place. He walked around her casually, leaning against the opposite side of the vanity table from the door, his buttocks bowling over her various cream-colored trinkets. He took a loud bite of apple, chewed it with dedication.

"I don't want to be called that anymore.” she stated, surprising him. His eyes zipped to hers, but hers were on the table. "Abilene, it's too Southern. We're in Hollywood now." Her tone bordered on sarcasm.

His eyes spanned the room, away from her, "How would you know?" he muttered, disgruntled, annoyed. Her eyes snapped toward him. He backed his tone up, snarky but no longer an outright snarl, "It's not like you've left the new house."

A silence descended. She put the cigarette in her mouth. He slumped sideways to grab the lighter, leaning over her to light it. "What should I call you?" his tone lighter, a mockery of kindness.

She breathed a small billow of smoke into his face, inches above her. “I suppose Abby will do, for now." He leaned out of the smoke’s reach, turned to exit. To his back she reprimanded, "Throw that... thing out." she insisted, took a long drag, "And wash your hands before you bring me a drink."

She watched him juggling the dreaded apple above his head. "Whatever you say, Mother dear."

“It's ABBY, remember!" she shouted after him hoarsely as she stabbed the half cigarette out, the move harsh and with more force than necessary. She took a few quick breaths, forcing them to come slower, through her mouth, willing the tart smell away, basking in the decay of tobacco.

***

Abby spun the stool 180 degrees and picked up her face powder, twisting the top off, flipping said top carelessly into the air so it clattered down amidst the other bits. She held the container in midair for a long, focused, second. She let go, watched it hang there, suspended in midair. Gradually, she added several other essential items in an exacting array of levitation. She sat back on the stool, her make-up surrounding her in a perfect semi-circle, facing away from the elegant vanity.

She took her time, making up her face by feel, by an absolute familiarity with the curves and angles of her own countenance. She ended with adding the thick layer of bright red on her lips.

A young woman entered. She stood, rigid, silent, hands folded together in front of her. Abby's eyes rose slightly, dismayed at the interruption. She lifted her right arm and swept the floating objects back to over the table in one swing. Once in a jumble a few inches over the vanity, she let them all crash down with a blink. She let out a huff of annoyance. "You know better than to distract me." she admonished without looking away from the haphazard pile of cosmetics.

She didn't look at the mirror. She didn't look at the girl.

"I thought you might be ready to dress." she responded, timidly. She swallowed nervously, adding uncertainly, "Abby."

"You like the name?" asked Abby, her voice turning conversational from confrontational on a dime.

The girl nodded. Abby could hear the nod without looking. A bit later the girl stated, suggestively, "Joey, he likes it too, really he does."

"He picked the name Joey?" spat Abby, finally turning to the girl. The girl looked as she always did, conservative, attentive. Abby took no time to assess her, knowing she was as unchanging as Joey was volatile. "Abby and Joey, Joey and Abby." she stopped to make a hissing sound. "It had to be cutesy. That boy is insufferable." She sighed, allowing her expression to freeze over.

"Abby, Joey and... January." the girl posited.

"What?" Abby asked. "Joshua never changes his name."

"I-I meant me." January answered, stuttering.

"Oh." Abby put her hand to her temple, manually smoothing her frown away. She reopened her eyes in January's direction, putting on a smile, or, a reasonable facsimile of one, soon followed by, sardonically, "What, did you run out of seasons?"

"I thought Winter might sound strange."

"Yes, because Spring was so commonplace."

January gave an acknowledging, halfhearted, smile. "What would you like to wear today?”

***

Dressed in a floor-length blue gown, the skirt carefully arranged to fit in the curve of the stool, Abby sat alone, smoking, watching wisps of smoke curl toward the ceiling. A man entered. She didn't have to look at Joshua to know how he looked.

He was tall. He had to bend a bit at the waist to duck under the doorway when crossing the threshold. With his presence, the room suddenly seemed cramped. Wherever Abby hid out during the day, whatever corner she carved out for herself in any new residence lost all its comfortability when he walked into it. Her right hand tensed into a fist unintentionally. She uncurled each finger, one by one.

"Good evening. Abby, is it?" he asked, genially, as though the name changes were still an excuse for a cute joke, as though they hadn't known each other for, well, forever.

She stood, gathering the skirts of her too-formal gown, walked to the spot directly in front of him. "Yes. Good evening, Joshua." She paused. "How are you?" she queried, trying to match him in friendliness.

"Fine. Just fine. Although, it is getting harder and harder to conduct business given the necessity for night."

"Do you think we'll have to move again, so soon?"

"I shouldn't think so." he stated, unbuttoned his suit jacket, spread his feet a few inches further apart, taking up more space, more power. “The only place better suited to our endeavors is New York. And... we all saw how that worked out."

Blame, ugly in its lack of concealment. Her smile remained on her face, refusing to allow a crack in her prim persona. But he felt it. The sheen of ice growing over her mind, her self. Like a pond in the dead of winter, she was no longer quick to think, or speak, nor quick to anger. There was no thawing that pond. But the thoughts were there, eternal, crystalline with ice. And a hatred of him, of the species, was the slushy liquid in its depths.

"How are you?" he asked, shifting the conversation back to civility.

She joined him in the display of dishonest comradery. "He's gone and named himself Joey. And he brought an apple in here.”

"He's young. He'll grow up."

"He'll never grow up. We took him too young."

"He's bringing you a drink?"

Nod.

"Promise me you'll take it?"

Nod. Long wait. Joshua made a show of looking at his watch. "I'm expected at a dinner meeting. I assume you won’t join me?"

She shook her head immediately, her right hand curling, grasping, about a fold in the skirt of her dress. He gave an accepting nod that had the aftertaste of an obligatory bow. He still held a hand to his stomach when he nodded that way, an inadvertent admittal of days long past, days of courtesy. "You look lovely today." He added, practically out the door already.

“Thank you." Abby whispered after him. She slumped over her vanity, dejected, tired beyond belief. Her shoulders, however, refused to slip into the cringe. They stuck as corners. She slowly moved her head, neck, and arms to match the firm structure of those shoulders, building herself back up piece by piece.

She didn’t look at the mirror.

She kept her eyes closed, concentrated on breathing.

***

There was a tip-tap knock at the doorjamb, made with fingers rather than a fist. Though, naturally, Abby had heard his approach well prior.

"I brought you something, Abby. I hope you're thirsty." Joey said.

Her eyebrows crinkled over closed eyelids. "I'll be down in a minute." She waited, hearing his soft footsteps as they padded away, out of the bathroom, out of the master suite, downstairs, down to the basement. She could hear the singular heartbeat down there.

She opened her eyes.

She looked at the mirror.

She looked deep. She looked forever. Then, she looked more systematically. First to the surface impediments, the minute specks of dust, the glints of artificial light. Next, the background, identifying each piece of furniture behind her. After that, the foreground, the contents of the table. Then, the stool, the cushion, empty. Finally, the last thing, the air, the space. The emptiness. The stark lack.

She stared. She stared into the mirror, and she remembered. Like every other day. It didn't matter how long the puddle of her mind was frozen. She remembered that she'd never see herself in that mirror again.

That realization was the only thing that ever made her thirsty anymore.

The heartbeat of the stranger in the basement echoed in her ears.

Abby followed it.