A NAKED NECK

The air sweetened as the spritz of perfume settled on her skin. It battled the scent of the frowsy furniture and the faint smell of gin. The dressing room had not changed. Hat boxes still lined the upper shelves, the turquoise drapes still hung by the bronze rods, and the long vanity was still strewn with cases overflowing with jewelry that had seen little use but much care. 

Her fingers grazed her neck. The spray felt cool to her touch, and she clutched the bottle with a covetous turn of her hand. She had to ration it carefully; they had discontinued the line years ago, but this one, this small little bottle, remained -- and it was hers. 

Her grip loosened, and she placed the perfume down. How silly…it didn’t really matter that much. After all, where was the worth in reminiscing? Nothing had changed. Not really. There was no reason to think like that. 

Her eyes drifted across the ceiling as she stretched her neck from side to side. She hadn’t noticed the cobwebs in the corner before. She would have Muriel take care of it tomorrow. Murial…why, she had gone and been gone a good while now. Of course, she had…She scanned the rest of the walls for more signs of neglect; there were plenty. Her neck twinged with the turn, and her mouth twitched. The pensive eyes caught the movement and met themselves in the glass. Their gaze unsettled her. Turning away, she glanced at an ornately carved box overflowing with dance cards, playbills, and invitations. They were, of course, old, but there would be more to add and more to receive; she was sure of it. 

Yet, she had to admit there weren’t as many “going outs” as before. She hardly attended the theatre herself anymore, and the invitations had lost their steady stream. Beside her wooden treasure trove was a small, leather-worn folder resting against the bookshelf. It struck her curiosity, for she couldn’t remember the contents now. 

Rising, she stepped toward the shelf and slid out the dusty sleeve, its burgundy cover faded. Brushing the dust from the top, she opened the cover. Slips of soiled paper and parchment slid awkwardly across each other without the folder’s embrace.  

She recognized the contents now. They were her letters, a collection of well-wishes, birthday greetings, bad news, and confessions of love, all bundled together in a myriad of swirling letters and stamped from home. Trembling, she stroked the pages. Sifting through the familiar names and dates, her head began to ache. The room felt suddenly warmer than it had before, though a nauseating chill crept over her skin. The folder found its way onto the floor, its contents sprawled about the carpet.

Turning away, she briskly slid a case’s drawer open and retrieved a small silver matchbox. It was embossed with bending hyacinths and lilies. Her hands shook as she opened the lid, and her pursed lips met the ashy tip of a cigarette that had been hiding beneath a cluster of bracelets.

Empty. 

With a sigh, the matchbox closed, and she tapped it nervously against the vanity top. No matter. Damn the habit, anyway. It was the death of people. Not that she was at any real risk. She wasn’t like the older folks whose lungs were weak. 

A bitter lump choked her bare throat. Noticing its nakedness, she quickly rummaged through the boxes and drawers with a ferocity close to hunger. She grasped a string of pearls and clasped them to her chest. Her hands stumbled blindly to find the clasp, the metal slipping through her fingers. The beads were tight around her neck, and with every breath she took, seemed to lock themselves around her throat. The suffocation was unbearable, but she refused to relent. The necklace would clasp. It must clasp. As she struggled in the mirror, she caught a glimpse of a woman she did not recognize.

It would clasp. 

It must. 

Tighter. 

Tighter. 

Snap! 

The ivory pearls clamored about the vanity with melodic taps. Her hands dropped. Her shoulders slumped. How much time passed was left unknown. The diamond-studded wristwatch lay tickless and timeless. 

Slowly, the grey mane lifted itself and, sullenly, faced the vision in the mirror. Hidden within the silken dressing gown was a figure worn and wrinkled. A down-turned mouth rested dumbly below sagging cheeks and dark, deep-set eyes. In the mirror’s reflection, the letters lay on the floor. 

What a pity it was that they had been left unanswered.