Maybe it was only fair.
DAY 3
OCTOBER 26, 2019
Isabelle lived in the small apartment above her store, Arts & Crafts & Antiques. She couldn’t remember how long she had lived there, or when she first opened her store. There were days that she couldn’t remember her own first name; her family name had lost all meaning to her years ago.
She always got up when the sun arrived to shine through her bedroom window. This meant that she held no real schedule and that, when the weather was bad, she would sometimes spend the whole day in bed waiting for rays of sun that wouldn’t come.
This morning the sun had graced her apartment at quite an early hour and Isabelle found herself at her small kitchen table, attempting to drink tea from an empty mug. Her thoughts, for as far as the old woman still had them, were always chaotic.
I have to open the store, and brush my teeth. Where are my glasses? Wait, do I have glasses? Where are my glasses? I have to brush my teeth. Do I own a store? I am not sure but I think I might. What do I sell again? How can I make tea if I don’t even have glasses?
Isabelle got up from the kitchen table and threw off her yellow bathrobe. Now completely naked, she stood in the middle of her kitchen and looked around. It was cold, she realized, and she folded her wrinkly arms around her body.
Why is it so cold? If I had my glasses I would warm up, I am sure of it.
She walked out of the kitchen and into the small hallway that connected all her rooms together. In the near distance lay the front door to her apartment, but Isabelle knew that her glasses probably weren’t outside.
Isabelle walked into her bathroom and looked between the pile of towels sitting in a corner on the floor. The towels were wet and some of them smelled of a fungus that was beginning to grow on them.
That smell is just because I don’t have my glasses yet. The world is always prettier when I have my glasses on.
The naked woman walked toward the small shelf hanging below her mirror. It was filled with lost strings of wet hair, old remnants of small soaps she collected, and her teeth that sat in an uncleaned glass filled with a pungent yellow substance.
These are my teeth! Not my glasses, you silly goose!
Perhaps it was random, or perhaps it was a woman’s ancient instinct that refused to stay dormant, but she looked at herself in the dirty mirror.
The mirror’s glass was stained by her own confused fingerprints and the chalky deposits caused by Isabelle’s erratic use of her showerhead. As far as it reflected anything, it showed Isabelle her wrinkled face and the deep blue eyes that seemed untouched by the hands of time.
For the briefest of moments a memory graced the forefront of her mind, but it withdrew quickly and Isabelle couldn’t hold on to it.
Have I been beautiful once?
She looked at the reflection staring back at her. Those dark blue eyes, could men not have fallen in love with those? Her hair was still curly, though it was white and thin now.
Was my hair once a different color?
Isabelle took a step forward and leaned closer toward her reflection. She looked at herself, left, right, top and bottom. The wrinkles that tore her weak flesh apart hadn’t always been there. At one time her skin had been pure and soft and the envy of others.
What others? It’s just me here, looking for my glasses!
No, the envy of others. There had been others and they had looked at her with a mixture of admiration and jealousy. She had loved their jealousy and feared it at the same time.
What others? I’m alone! I have always been alone, with my glasses.
Isabelle stepped back and her upper body was reflected in the mirror. Her breasts had fallen victim to the cruel powers of gravity, her nipples almost pointing to the floor.
They are big, aren’t they? Weren’t they stronger once?
She shook her head in frustration. None of this stuff was helping her find her glasses and she was cold, so cold.
How can I possibly warm up without my glasses? Enough of this silly business!
When she turned away from the mirror a voice rang inside her head. Gently at first but, when it realized she could barely be reached anymore, it spoke louder. It told her about the moon and the stars and the truth of nature. Destruction was the truly divine; without it there could be no room for the brutal beauty of existence. It was all a macabre dance of absolute chaos and she, the voice told her, had once been the most beautiful song it had ever heard.
Isabelle returned her gaze to the mirror but did not find her own reflection looking back. Instead, a man appeared to her with a gentle smile. Even in her current state of mind the man’s exquisite beauty could not escape her. His pale skin and perfect black hair were only the beginning. His eyes were deep and wise, as if they had seen the truths of life revealed to them, and his muscular shoulders betrayed a strength that felt otherworldly.
He placed his hand on his side of the mirror and waited for Isabelle to approach him.
When she did so she touched the mirror and together they stood in a strange embrace, separated only by the glass of the mirror between them. To Isabelle his touch felt warm and familiar, though she couldn’t remember where she had seen him before. Felt him. Known him.
She had known him once and he knew her still.
Isabelle asked, “What do you want from an old hag like me?”
He answered, “Your soul is enough.”
Isabelle shook her head at the sight in the mirror and withdrew her hand.
“My soul is old and rotten. It’s no good to anybody.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that. I can make you young and beautiful again. You may be valuable once more, if you desire it.”
He pointed at the teeth on the shelf below the mirror as he said, “Take your teeth. I have brought you breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
Isabelle took the teeth from the dirty glass and, without rinsing off the old yellow substance, put them in. A sour taste ran through her mouth, tormenting the back of her tongue with an almost vicious bite. She didn’t care. Something about the man inside her mirror had captivated her, put a spell on her.
He pointed to his right as he said, “Breakfast. In the kitchen.”
It was hard for Isabelle to leave the beautiful man behind. Even without his touch she had felt his warmth and now to be alone again felt like a cruel punishment. Her naked body was so, so very cold.
Still, she retreated from her bathroom and stepped back into the hallway. It took her a moment to realize where her kitchen was but then determined steps took her there.
The smell in the kitchen was wonderful. It filled her chronically inflamed nose and cleared the slime clogging up her airways.
The aroma came from a big plate on the kitchen table, and lured her back to the seat she had abandoned earlier.
Isabelle sat down and pulled the plate closer to her. At first she had difficulty understanding what she was looking at, but then something jogged her memory and she realized that she had eaten this many times before. It was too big for her now, though.
She got up and walked to one of the drawers where she kept her cutlery. Her wrinkly hands traced the unwashed spoons and forks until she found what she was looking for. A big butcher’s knife.
Isabelle returned to her seat and, with her rusty knife, cut into the roasted arm that lay on her plate. It was big and strong so Isabelle knew it must have come from a man. Hastily she separated the skin from the bone and, with greedy hands, stuffed it inside her hungry mouth. It was nice and crunchy and the familiar texture sparked one memory after another.