Another Sample Sunday – on Twitter!

When I awoke the next morning, there was a warm, unfamiliar presence in the bed. I opened one cautious eye.
Fred. Right. Fred had often asked to be let up on the bed, but Brian always said no. During the times when Brian had been away for extended business trips, I had not given in because I knew that Brian would be back and Fred would face even more disappointment. Last night, Fred got the invite.
As a sleeping companion, Fred was commendable. He didn’t snore. His legs didn’t twitch. When I snored, he didn’t shake me on the shoulder and insist I turn over on my side. He didn’t steal the covers or get up three or four times to pee. He didn’t fart and stayed on his side of the bed. He had it all over Brian.
I smelled coffee and knew that the previous day had not been some bizarre Kaftka-esque nightmare. Brian, in the twenty years we had been married, had never made the coffee.
I got out of bed and stumbled across the hall to the bathroom. On the way back, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror beside the dresser and almost had a stroke. I looked awful. My first thought was, God, no wonder he left.
I forced myself to take another look, then began to process my figure logically. I usually didn’t look this bad. My eyes, for instance, were only bloodshot because of all those Carmichael Martinis. That was also why my skin looked so pasty, except for the red splotch on the side where the sheets had bunched up beneath my cheek and left an imprint. Normally, my hair was carefully brushed, not sticking straight up on one side.
I squinted. A few years ago, my eyelashes completely disappeared. They could be coaxed back with two or three applications of black/black mascara, but without that, my face looked lash-less and bland. Not quite this bland, but still.
I pulled back my lips in a forced grin. There was not a forest of pine growing between my teeth after all. It just felt that way. The Carmichael Martini again.
I threw back my shoulders. I had always been proud of the fact that I had only gained ten pounds in twenty years of marriage. Of course, redistribution had become a bit of a problem. My arms were not sleek, but rather rounded, almost puffy. But then, Liz Taylor, in that scene in A Place in the Sun, where she first meets Monty Cliff playing pool, and she’s in that gorgeous white dress with her arms and shoulders bare, well, her arms aren’t very buff either, but you don’t even notice because of all that cleavage. I’ve got cleavage too, but, without proper support, my breasts sag so badly that unfettered, my nipples hover about four inches above my waistline. I’m naturally short-waisted, by the way, but it’s still a pretty impressive drop.
My thighs rub together. And my butt wobbles.
I stepped back from the mirror, hoping that a little distance would improve the situation.
It didn’t.
But I clean up well. I had a head shot done a few years ago, for a conference or some such nonsense, and boy, did I look good. Black and white, with the light just right on my eyes, which are, with enough mascara, my best feature. My cheekbones looked sculpted, my chin and jaw line firm, my dark hair beautifully styled, my smile seductive. Almost Ava Gardener. That old-fashioned, glam look.
Not that morning, however.


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