The Performer
My mother was right: I was hideous.
The reflection that peered back at me was less than deserving of existing within such an ornate mirror.
Delicate lacings, custom hand stitching, and fine silk clung to my body, but I did not feel as if it fit. Some days I thought my proportions were too long, too stalky and thin.
She was right about another thing—the bruises were unsightly.
I pulled on a long silken robe to cover myself, as if there were anyone else in the room to judge me other than myself.
Despite my less-than-glowing review of my appearance, I tried my best to be presentable. I let my hair down, still curled from its styling the previous night.
Last night . . .
Suddenly my situation settled on me like a new roof on an old brick house.
Arkady hadn’t even stepped foot into my room.
A stab of cynicism pierced my gut and squeezed my fluttering heart. It wasn’t much of a surprise that he hadn’t joined me, more so that there was not even a shallow attempt to engage further. Which, admittedly, is to the credit of my drunken temper.
When you are young, they make it seem like marriage is something to look forward to. The dress out of a princess story modeled after a long line of gowns worn by royalty. The feast as an excuse to splurge, a milestone to be celebrated with traditions kept alive in time.
I knew it would be exciting in some sense, but I couldn’t have imagined this. Marriage seemed so much more magical when I was young. Now, it is a convenient piece of paper.
With an exasperated huff, I left my room and peered into the hallway.
Empty.
Every step down the stairs creaked in a different pitch.
There was a haze left by the afternoon light penetrating the living room. The tea table was cluttered with books stacked dowdily upon each other, and the love seat was unkempt from a guest using it to slumber. The candle on the table was burnt to the end of its wick, cool wax pooled in the holder.
Placed upon the table was a business card, writing scrawled across it.
My contact number, call for emergencies only, the “only” underlined several times. Printed on the card was a phone number and the address of a studio. There was no business or studio name aside from his own.Arkady Kamenev. Artisan.
His penmanship was terrible, chicken scratch at best. The business card was handmade, as indicated by the basic typeset and a small smudge on his name.
Aside from the measly card, there were no signs of the stray I’d married.
“Look at that one, I don’t think I’ve seen a green that bright before.” Lorelei gestured slightly to a woman passing us.
“I thought greens were outdated?”
“I think people say that because they are secretly jealous that they can’t afford it. It’s even more expensive since the shade was discontinued.” She lowered her voice as if sharing some daring secret.
The two of us sat for a leisurely amount of time on the same bench we always frequented at the park. Most days we watched the promenade and took the time to soak in whatever fresh air we could before we spent our days in the musty theater for rehearsal.
“You weren’t at the audition yesterday.” Lorelei stared doe-eyed at me, endless brown eyes reflecting my pale image. “Your absence threw me enough where I think it was my worst audition yet!”
“I was married,” I mumbled.
“Married?” Her mouth hung open in disbelief before smiling wide. “I see, you are joking, that’s what you’re doing. You’ve always been so funny!”
“No, I am sincere.” I sloped my head to the side to peer at her, holding up my left hand.
The ring was my mother’s, refit for a bloodred cabochon-cut ruby just for the occasion. Even when the correct size, the prongs cut between my fingers if placed unfavorably, rejecting the fit. But that part didn’t matter.As long as it’s impressive looking, it doesn’t matter how it feels,I’m sure my mother thought.
