Short Story/Slice of Life: THE MIRROR

This is a "slice of life" short story I wrote many years ago. When I read it for the first time in more than a decade, it seemed outdated and terribly old-fashioned, like a tale from a small-town in the '50s. It was meant to express in simple story form a natural longing of what we refer to as the human heart or soul--the seat of emotions. Though times and people have changed in numerous ways since I scribbled this little story, I think that basic longing is intact. I leave it to the reader to decide. (This story is fiction and not meant to describe any person, living or dead.)

THE MIRROR

©Copyright by Jaye Denman. All rights reserved.

Getty read the last sentence of the paperback romance and slowly closed the book. On the garishly colored wrapper, the heroine’s head was thrown back, her lips parted, her purple dress low-cut and revealing. The face of the handsome broad-shouldered hero was buried in the curve of her neck. The title, Everlasting Passion , was emblazoned in large Gothic typeface below the illustration.

Everlasting , Getty thought. Forever lasting ….

She sighed and rose from the sofa where she’d spent most of the afternoon, lost in a fantasy world of heaving bosoms and fervent kisses. Across the room was a storage chest. Getty lifted the lid and placed the paperback in a stack of others similarly illustrated. Most of the women on the covers were blonde and buxom, showing lots of cleavage. A few had long curly auburn or black tresses. Each woman was clutched in the embrace of an attractive male.

She closed the lid that hid her stash. Hid it from Bobby. Her husband thought reading a complete waste of time and never hesitated to voice his opinion if he caught sight of one of her books. She made a point of keeping them tucked away.

A glance at the wall clock showed she had only forty minutes to make dinner. Bobby’s arrival home from work rarely varied.

That meant leftovers. The smell of reheated chicken stew soon filled the tiny kitchen. She turned off the burner beneath the stewpot and placed two bowls with two spoons on the small wooden table. Ten minutes to spare.

Getty went into the bedroom and picked up her hairbrush from the dresser. She removed the elastic band from a low ponytail and gently pulled the brush through her light brown hair. A quick swipe of lipstick across her lips completed the little ritual.

She was about to go back into the kitchen when she glanced into the mirrored door of her grandmother’s old mahogany armoire. Dark specks on the glass where the backing had worn away made her image appear freckled. She tilted her head a bit to one side for an unblemished view.

Getty suddenly had an urge to feel pretty, to look like the woman on the cover of the romance novel. Such a woman would not greet her man wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt. Of course not. She would wear a pretty dress, wouldn’t she? He'd want the woman he loved to be lovely.

Off came the shirt over her head in one quick move. She stepped out of the jeans, shoved both into the bottom of the armoire, and reached for the hanger that held a green dress.

Green was Getty’s favorite color, and she admired the gauzy emerald fabric as she smoothed the dress around her hips and zipped it up the back. She hadn’t worn it in a long time, but it still fit. She gazed at herself in the armoire mirror, pulling in her stomach and lifting her chest up and out like the girl on the book cover. She smiled and the image in the mirror smiled back.

Bobby’s old pickup rattled into the drive. A moment later, she heard the truck door slam. She slipped her feet into sandals and hurried into the living room. Sitting on the arm of the faded sofa, she rested one arm along the backrest and attempted a look of nonchalance.

A heavyset man in a blue-shirted uniform came through the door carrying a dented metal lunchbox. As he strode by the sofa, Bobby looked at his wife and his eyelids flickered in surprise. He stopped and stared.

She tossed her head back slightly; a lock of hair fell across her forehead. Her pose on the sofa arm was putting a strain on her back, but Getty didn’t move. She wished she had thought to splash some cologne on her neck.

Bobby set the lunchbox on an end table and put his hands on his hips. His mouth curled up at each corner. Getty waited, unmoving.

Suddenly Bobby leaned back, slapping one hand on his thigh and roaring with laughter.

“Woman, why on earth are you wearin’ that silly outfit to dig in the garden? I told you this morning I’d stop at the co-op and pick up the tomato plants on my way home. We’ve got to get 'em set out before supper. That TV movie they've been advertising all week comes on at eight. Now, go on! Take off that fancy dress and put on your gardening clothes."

Still chuckling, Bobby headed out the back door to the storage shed to gather the garden tools.

Getty stood up slowly and stood for a few moments in stunned silence before she trudged to the bedroom. She stopped in front of the armoire and stared at her sad hazel eyes in the flawed glass. She unzipped the dress, stepped out of it and left it lying in a crumpled heap on the bed, retrieved her jeans and T-shirt and hurriedly pulled them on. Getty ran fingers through her wayward hair and pulled it back to the nape of her neck, securing it with the elastic band. She looked into the mirror again.

What happened to the pretty woman? Where did she go? Was she ever there at all?

She grimaced. Does Bobby ever look at me any more and think I’m pretty?

Her wooden-handled hairbrush lay on the dresser. She grabbed the brush and fiercely hurled it through her silvered image.

Shocked, Getty watched the shards of glass crash to the floor. One of the ragged slivers clung to the edge of the frame, quivered a moment and dropped into the splintery mess obscuring the sheen of waxed hardwood.

Tears began to roll down her cheeks, but she ignored them as she gathered broom and dustpan from the hall closet. Briskly, she swept remains of the mirror from the floor. When the dustpan was full, she dumped broken glass into the kitchen trashcan. She splashed water on her face at the sink and dried it roughly with a paper towel, wiping off her lipstick in the process.

Bobby yelled from the back yard, “What’s keeping you, Getty? Get on out here now and help me, or I’ll miss that show.”

Getty opened the back door, walked down the steps and crossed the yard to the little corner garden plot.

“Here I am, Bobby,” she said. “I’m right here.”

THE END

Thanks for reading....JAYE

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