Lipstick On Maison Margiela 2015

On some days, it happens. On days when the memories become overwhelming. She sits at her old vanity and looks at herself in the mirror, sees her sunken face and her tired, watery blue eyes. Then she reaches for jars and brushes and applies theatrical makeup, powder, blush, and lipstick. It may be a bit too thick and garish, but her eyes have long since become more forgiving. She has kept some of her old stage costumes, even though they no longer fit her. Too much liqueur and chocolates to soothe the darkness in her heart. Sometimes she holds one of the flowing gowns to her chest and timidly turns in front of the mirror. And still, she always has - draped in a kitschy vase - flowers on the dresser, just as they once adorned her wardrobe. She always loved how the aromas of lipstick and sweet powder mingled with the intoxicating scent of the blossoms.

Her gaze wanders to the old framed photograph. He was the love of her life - her husband, her lover and friend, her constant companion and protector, her rock and inspiration. She was happy and secure with him, never diva-like, for she always wanted to be just the girl by his side. The marriage remained childless; this one sacrifice they both made for the stage. She missed nothing - back then. Until the day he left her alone. Quite suddenly, after a heart attack. A rift in her life, so deep that it would never heal. After that, her voice became as fragile as her abandoned soul. She closed all the doors behind her and turned her back on the stage. The money was enough for a modest living. She never liked waste anyway. So many years ago. She rarely leaves the apartment anymore for short walks. The world outside her window has long ceased to be hers.

The sound of the key in the apartment door pulls her from her thoughts. It’s the sister from the nursing service. She comes by as always in the late afternoon to check on things. This young thing, so casually friendly, so eager and dutiful, undoubtedly professional. At least she diligently does the shopping and brings her flowers every week when she asks for them. She does need a little help, her old bones and creaking joints are too tired by now. One shouldn’t be ungrateful. So she patiently endures the cheerful chatter that inevitably interrupts her daydream.

Now it is quiet again in the apartment. Only the antique clock ticks reliably and evenly as always. She looks out the window. Outside, the autumn leaves tumble down onto the damp, shiny sidewalk. Dusk comes early in this late season. Tonight, she doesn’t feel like turning on the television. No, tonight she has made herself up. The makeup as thick as the chunky rings. The eyeliner redone. Bright lips. She wants to dream again of the days when the stage still belonged to her. Flipping through yellowed photo albums, listening to the old arias. She has taken the flower vase from the dresser and placed it on the small round tea table. With slightly trembling hands, she puts a record on.

She sits there for a long time, in his old armchair, from which she could never part. The music has long since faded. She should really get up to turn the record over. She will do it, but not right away. She closes her eyes and listens to the steady rhythm of the tireless pendulum clock. I want to dream, yes.

She must have dozed off for a moment. When did the clock stop ticking? She must have forgotten to wind it today. This has never happened to her before. Bright warm light seeps through her closed eyelids. She couldn’t possibly have slept until morning.

This scent. It is still there, even stronger than before. Powdery vanilla, dust-born iris leading the dance of the other flowers, creamy lipstick, soft and sweetly rounded, a little exaggerated, a bit kitschy. Full-bodied opulence, occasionally interrupted by almost girlish moments of fruity cherry red. Always a touch far removed from feminine elegance. How fitting. She almost would have giggled.

Someone takes her hand. It must be the nursing sister. She must have given her something for the pain, for she hasn’t felt so light and carefree in a long time. Please let me keep dreaming.

Whispered words reach her ear, a man’s voice so warm and familiar. She sighs resignedly and slowly opens her eyes. He is kneeling before her. It is his hand that holds hers. Boyish joy sparkles in his eyes and endless love. He is so young. His chestnut brown, full curls shine in the light. He leans towards her, gently strokes her cheek, and kisses her tenderly on the forehead. “You are here.” His smile merges with her smile. He has prepared the stage for her.

She is no longer asleep, and she no longer dreams. She is home. She knows it.