Liz heaved her weight out of the desk chair, feeling that deep pain in her right knee again, feeling the stiff ache in her lower back. But she hauled herself up anyway and lumbered to the mirror hanging over the credenza on the far wall. She looked at her hair, then she looked at her eyes, then she looked at her nose, her mouth—all in isolation. She never looked lower if she could help it. She pulled the Sassy Pink lipstick tube out of her pocket, broke it open, twisted it up, and meticulously reformed her mouth. She shifted her gaze back to her eyes and carefully wiped the smudge of mascara away from under her lower left lid. Elizabeth Taylor eyes. That was what her mama used to tell her when she was little. Her mama would smile, hold her chin, and say, “You have eyes just like Elizabeth Taylor, honey. Violet eyes just like Elizabeth Taylor.”
Liz studied her eyes in the mirror. They were really just a nice shade of blue, but her mama loved Elizabeth Taylor. Liz did have pretty eyes, though—thickly fringed with long dark lashes.
“Very pretty eyes on mama’s very pretty little girl.”
Mama wasn’t here to tell her that, now.
In the 1970s there was a British comedy called "The Rise and Fall of Reginald Perrin." In it the title character, a staid middle-aged man, descends into madcap madness. Among his antics is the launching of Grot, a shop dedicated to useless things. In salute to all things useless, this blog is dedicated to grot.
About Me
- Kathi
- I'm 52 years old. I work in a small engineering communications unit of a large public university. I write, edit, and do a little web work.
3 comments:
Very good! But why do I have the sudden desire to fling myself from the Roanoke River Bridge?
Hi Kam,
Don't throw yourself off that bridge. Didn't mean to bring you so low.
-K
I've seen this blogger's eyes in person, and they are killer, drop dead pretty.
Skeeter
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