You just stepped out of a bath. The tiles are slippery and you suddenly find yourself steadying yourself against a radiator. It’s almost June and still it is blasting heat. You quickly remove your hand and find yourself once more on steady ground. There you are again, same old face, same silhouette. You like it – and you don’t. It’s strange, as limbs are going south you have quietly resigned to its inevitability. In fact because of age – and maturity, you find it strangely attractive. Don’t fall into the pond Narcissus, you remind yourself. A faint smile. A wink, just to yourself. You dress yourself in an ivory white, silk négligé. It’s what women do your age. It’s what they did in their early teens, trying on what was their mothers, making them feel vastly grown-up, And now you do the very same, for different reasons. A little bit of prettiness, perhaps even making you look younger…before it is too late.
You trace the inside of your arm with your nose. It smells faintly of lavender oil. You need something stronger, pungent…Bandit by Robert Piguet. You let a few expensive drops of perfume run down the cavity of your breasts. Do anyone care for them any longer? You strangely find them beautiful but do anyone else?
Your husband walks in. He barely notice you, but throws something straight on your neatly organised administration pile. Papers are flying. He doesn’t even apologise. Did he ever? And so you realise that age makes you accept…your own mortality, your loss in value, your inevitable fate.