Reflections

Snick!

The door clicks closed. I can’t see her yet; she is too far away, the lighting too low. But I know it is her – recognise the way the shadows drape around her, shielding her from prying eyes. And so, I wait, patiently. It’s what I do: I sit, and I wait, and when she is near…

Click!

…and a splash more light, pooling at her feet. Much better. The pretty little lamp in the corner gives off such a flattering glow, softens the shadows, hinting at the secrets they hide, but still not quite ready to reveal them. I do so love this dramatic tension! The shift from unknown to almost known, where hints and lies lay tangled and muddled, twisted together until you can no longer see where one ends and the other begins.

Tappp

Then the tick, tick, tick begins, counting down the minutes until she leaves me again. Our routine has shifted over the years, become almost a sacred habit. A ritual, with carefully choreographed movements, performed in near-silence. Just the two of us, away from prying eyes, preparing for what lies beyond the closed door.

Scriiiiiitchhh!!!

I flinch at the sound as she drags a chair to the dresser. I can’t help it. I should be used to it by now, expect it, anticipate it even, but every time she catches me off guard, and every time it feels like a physical assault, as if the scratches she carves into the parquet flooring are gouged across my surface. So much time alone in the darkness, such things startle me.

Time trickles by unnoticed when she is not here; I am frozen, deep in sleep, waiting for her to return and wake me. But once she is here… it ticks away steadily, her timer clicking and ticking away the seconds until she is gone again, leaving a little piece of her here in the depths my memory. Tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, she will be older, but I do not age; I swallow her youth, allow it to pool in me, for her to gaze on and remember.

But she is here now, and I must compose myself, prepare the mask she expects me to present. I close my eyes, take a deep breathe, ready myself for

FLASH!!!

The lights surrounding the mirror burst into life, illuminating the assortment of bottles and brushes, lotions and potions that lay strewn between us. The shadows shy away form the brilliant light, huddling in the corners, lurking, biding their time; waiting to come between us once again.

First one, then another of the lights begin to flicker. Faulty bulbs, maybe? Or something in the wiring? Now they are all joining in, a morse code distress signal disrupting our moment. Maybe it is sabotage; we know they try to keep us apart, stop us from sharing, remembering. They want us to forget, to be forgotten.

FLASH! FLASHflash! FL.. FL.. FLA… flicker.. flickFLASH!

Flashback. Now I understand the term, it finally makes sense. The flash has thrown us back in time, awakened memories of the days when this barrage of popping bulbs felt like our natural habitat. For years if felt like we never saw true darkness, our every movement followed and documented by a swarm of paparazzi; photographers hungry for just one more shot, a stolen moment of vulnerability that tells a fresh story, something – anything - that will make their name. I wonder, do they know the hours we spent practising for these moments? Finding the perfect balance of shock and composure – poised, but not so much as to suggest the assault is expected, but careful not to appear hostile either, for fear they will turn away, find another face to make their fortune. Unpredictability was our game; one moment the sweet ingenue, the next the sultry vixen, the debutante to the dowager, but always with that core that could not be replicated or easily imitated. You see, we knew the real secret: every party we attended, every red carpet showcase, they were all just informal auditions. Show up, hit your marks, say your lines, but give them something extra. Something unexpected. Make them remember you.

But they don’t always remember.

And that is why she needs me – not just so they remember, but so she doesn’t forget. They don’t realise that she doesn’t see herself in the mirror. Not really. She sees me instead; the character we created, crafted, developed over time. She may shrink and fade as the limelight slowly dims and melts away, but I live on. I am billboard posters and crumbling celluloid, snapshot images and idealised memories, scattered dreams and fragmented ideas, echoes of a long-forgotten life. I am carefully curated omissions, making lies of lives.