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flat, golden-brown stomach and swings herself over the side, her smooth
feet hitting the top stair with a satisfying sound, like a cup setting into its
saucer.
She fetches her robe from a great brass hook in the wall. It is the color
of earth before planting. It shines with quality. She knots the sash around
her strong waist. It is too big for her. She drowns deliciously inside it. She
does not need a robe. It is warm here and she has nothing to hide. But she
enjoys the slippery kiss of it against her skin all the same.
Like everything else, it was a gift. From him to her. The world flows in
that direction. Him to her. A river of forever.
She sits down at a huge vanity, so big she must pile up throw pillows on
the seat just to see herself in the wide mirror, a polished oval glass ringed in
carved wooden branches bearing figs and plums. Sophia has never been one
for too much makeup. Scrubbed skin and hair is more than enough, her
husband always says. But a little color in the cheek never hurt anyone. He
never needs to know. If he thinks a woman wakes in the morning with
shimmering eyes and a perfect pout, let him.
She ties her hair back with a white ribbon, stark as bare bone against her
thick brown hair. Outside the windows, finches and starlings and lorikeets
warm up for their daily concert in the park.
Sophia’s long, clever fingers pull at the crystal knob on the vanity’s top
right-hand drawer. With a thrill of pleasure in this thing done each day for
herself and herself alone, she takes out her little secret luxuries: a bronze
compact with the puff tucked neatly inside, three slender brushes tipped
with soft tufts of rabbit fur, and three small matching pots: clay for cold
cream, silver for rouge, and gold for eyeliner. Kindly Mrs. Orpington
tucked them into her grocery basket next to the sweet potatoes and the eggs
and the new butter. Her neighbors are always looking out for her that way.
Shy little treats, shy little smiles, shy little waves from down the road.
Sophia paints herself slowly, subtly, every sweep of the rabbit bristles
against her skin as electric as a summer storm.
Today, as she does every day, Sophia will descend the grand staircase
into the house. It takes some time. The teak steps rise so steep and tall she
must perch on the lips of them like a child, stretching her legs down to
brush the top of the next one, and only then scoot down safely, then repeat
and repeat and repeat until her toes finally find the relief of the parquet
floor. Her man carved each of the twenty-eight stairs round the edges with a