The Mistress

She lowers herself upon the carpet, kicking away her heels against the tempting shadows. The mistress told herself all too many times that she was done begging for comfort, but such promises are emptied of their power against the pale weight of loneliness and the dead of night. Her single days have morphed into weeks of a crusted passion. Every other night, she welcomed the darkness that slowly came to find her body stony and imprisoned upon the floor, wishing always to be consoled. The consolation, however, only lasts as long as her face is able to sustain the flush of warmth. Yet, she continued inviting the feeling to come around again, to reel it in and bring it as close as it should be. Tonight is another attempt to coax that feeling, from whatever remains left of her.

Beneath a forbidding and stark figure, her red dress hastily comes undone, stripped of a decency. The man beckons to see her more, out of a rapacious fascination to discover what men can do to a fair yet fragile maiden. Despite a split-second thought to perhaps turn the night away, she blankly nods and gives in to the grasping hands. While her memory of her daughter still flickers as a glimmer of hope, she now resorts to the cynical recognition that she does not have much else to fall back on. There are no roomy alternatives besides being surrounded by a witness of candles, casting her movements against their judgment, finding out what else could possibly groom her days back in order. If there is anything worth having, letting herself go for one last time could spur a renewed sense of inspiration, to finally set herself free of the wretched past and leave behind the hoaxes, the lies and deceit, the confusion in whatever choices she has made. Self-proclaimed finales often have a way of reassuring that a new beginning, a new fresh pasture of freedom, is already on its way.

After the white pasty room has finished echoing with all the savage grunting and moaning, both the mistress and man lay upon their backs, at the feet of the beds, in their final moments of their slow-rolling companionship. How she should respond to him still remains a mystery to her. That was delightful? Raunchy? Or would a “Thank You” be in order? No, to her, silence is rather a better remedy of disclosure. After all, she has kept silent at the end of many patronizing debates before. She knows that she should not be like this, but however, she has become too acclimated, too easily supple to stay appeased, drifting in the solitude of feeling unhurt. There is no great reason to vocalize herself out of the deed and explain away the regret or guilt or whatever gnawing emotion has thrived from the vicious affairs of an expendable man, among many others. Her present actions show that she has no need to sort out their differences.

As his hands rustle through her ashy black hair, his touch feels poignant enough to be remembered, in the subtle way that his eyes arch up to meet hers, but yet again, the warmth has left, trickling out the room. The truth is that she cannot stand the sight of him because he is so eagerly docile. Officially a married man in his forties, he carries a desperation with him, as one could long for liquor, cigarettes, or even a hotel room, to fulfill a wayward quietness. But the courage to stand and shuttle him out the door has also left her. As much as she detests the fawning desires of men, she craves them because she has yet to choose differently and reposition herself to be someone that is not so unbecoming. Retracting herself slowly from him, the man picks up on the tell, gathers his belongings, and leaves without acknowledging her by name. Neither is his name strictly known to her too. Not fully known anyway. A “Brian”. But he could have been a “Thomas” or “John” or whatever. Names are a transactional formality when it comes to casually getting on with any kind of business. They only seem to work as an identifiable placeholder, like how anyone could stroll past the nametag of some unremarkable cashier at some grocery store and still forget the name. She lost the good reasons to try and remember names anymore. If she does, like with Brian, it is only out of convenience.

Though the candles remain vibrant and untouched, the beige curtains remain closed and the windows tightly shuttered, even in the dry summer heat. She recollects herself and dusts her feeble and thin legs, without bothering to retrieve her clothes or heels now. They have been deprived of the care to settle as everyday attire, in how soiled and worn they have become in these nights out. She, of course, has a whole wardrobe of inviting dresses to indulge men to her unspecial whims. Nothing more, though, could be said about how she wants to see herself, to decide which dress is right for which occasion, which is a pity for such expensive clothes.

The mistress opens the bathroom door and readily climbs into the shower. Hot scalding water blasts against her drooping head and back. Yet, the tears suddenly pour out all at once, through her fingers, intermingled with the water coursing around the curves of a hollow woman. Sometimes, sadness is inevitable, aching to rear up after being washed down and down in how alone and fleeting the heartache of memories can feel. When unmet with a certain boldness, it can fester in the reprieve of a shower. No one here can claim to be that undebased without a need of cleaning up the scars tacked upon the heart.

Her last year is too much to bear: with her road trips that stretched farther north to a summer cottage, to her hikes around Waldo Lake, to her nightly outings in the scenic outskirts of Portland. She replays the moments, as much as she can recall the colors and sounds of a fading documentary that was once lived long ago, recorded now within the theater of her mind. It is the only place that she can, at least, find the composure to stand apart from the separation and the love of her daughter. Her absolute trust is in her young daughter, where the best parts of herself are evident in her adventures in the backyard, budding as an explorer around the trees in search for a nice home to nest the birds. Or in how her daughter would gingerly follow along in the steps to roll up home-made dumplings. But even that is too much for her to look back on, however. Any more reminiscing would eventually drag her further into the lifeless apathy that has already taken hold of her, as the ghosts of her distant past have, on some unexpected mornings, strapped her shoulders down and exorcised her upon the bed for hours. No matter how she resisted, the ritual would leave her feeling abandoned, then dead.

After drying herself, in the faintly lit darkness, she gropes out the bathroom and returns to the mess laid out upon the floor. She picks up the red dress first and clutches it in her hands. It was the very dress that somehow defined her marriage; she wore it when she first encountered her once beloved husband, and together, it came to be recognized as more than a piece of fabric. It was a reminder of the serendipitous fire that kindled between two broken strangers that were looking for nothing else but a good time at a local bar. But would she ever dare to wear this again? It is uncertain where she currently places herself, naked, in front of her clothes strewn about. A neutrality is briefly gone. At least for now, she can feel something—anything to forget her last summer—in the muted company of her scented candles. The choice remains whether she will restore her dignity and reclaim her name, back to living appropriately as the adventurous, upbeat woman that she once knew and adored, not to feel desecrated anymore.