Candice considered herself in the glass of her dressing table mirror.
"You don’t look too bad for forty," she grinned, contorting her face and turning this way and that to inspect herself for signs.
“Mother always said that the neck is the first to go.”
Candice smoothed her hands down her neck, but so far, so good; she couldn’t spot any overtly ugly wrinkles.
"I must look my best. This is the big one. My date with reckoning."
She opened the drawer and took out her tools. Blusher, foundation, lipstick, mascara, eyeliner, and perfume The comforting, distinctive scent of makeup emboldened her.
"I’m going to wear pink. Pink is the perfect foil. Pink it is. Pink to make me feel strong and alive. Pink for pretty!"
She sponged on her foundation, highlighted her cheekbones in pink, flicked on black mascara, and outlined her lips. She stood up from her chair for a better advantage and applied pink lipstick carefully inside the outline.
"There. That's the best I can do."
"The better I look today, the more chance I’ll have." Insight steadied her hand. She spritzed perfume on her wrists—a gift from Glen, her husband, in better times.
Her thoughts turned to the past few days. She sighed deeply at her reflection as her husband’s words echoed in the room around her.
"We have to sit down like adults and discuss this separation in an amicable way. In a way that allows us both to carry on with our lives without drama or trauma."
The gravity of the moment hit her like a fist to the chest. The memory of his charming grin appeared grotesque in her mind’s eye. The menace in his words made her shiver with dread.
She brushed away a tear that hovered, fat and threatening, on her lash.
"Damn him! Damn It. The bastard." But she held her tears and forced her lips to curl into a grin of her own.
"He’s not going to get his way. He’s not! You have to do this. You have to. It’s the only way to test the bounds of commitment, to see if you’ll emerge from this in one piece."
Quickly, before the weight of her flagging resolve assailed her, she threw open her closet and pulled out her prettiest pink dress—a long-sleeved drift of cotton with a tiered skirt in a cottagey print that sang a delightful tune of fun.
She twirled in the dress to gain strength from its mood and clicked on the Uber app before she could change her mind.
Outside, the day had turned to autumn; crisp leaves swirled in russet-hued clouds of melancholic foreboding, the cold of winter close on their tails.
She found a table at the restaurant close to a window with a view of a quiet pond beyond—a restful view that would quieten her ragged, raging mind. A chair away from the crowd where she could find solace if Glen’s ultimatum made her fail, lose her commitment, and begin, again, the cycle of destruction she’d forced herself out of.
Candice ordered a vegan lasagna that sounded delectable. The menu promised a dish brimming with exotic mushrooms and the sweet aroma of basil and garlic. She ordered a bottle of pink champagne and a bottle of the finest red wine the place had to offer.
While she waited, she took in the view, but instead of the wind-whipped scene of reality, she saw episodes of her life flash by with eerie silence, her mind's eye conjuring the linear timeline before her in the reflection of the glass:
There she was on her wedding day, brimming with life, flowers in her hair.
There she was with Sasha, her daughter, in her arms, cooing like a love-sick dove.
There she was with Glen, wrapped in his arms, while on vacation in Greece for their second honeymoon.
There she was, holding Sasha’s hand on the first day of school.
There she was, holding back the tears, while Glen told her he’d rented a flat and wanted access to Sasha and his share of their assets.
There she was.
"Here you are, Miss." The waitress’ words jarred her from her reverie.
"Do you want me to pour the champagne or the wine first?"
"Please pour both at once. I see you’ve brought both a champagne and wine glass like a clever girl." The waitress raised an eyebrow but was quick to do as she was asked.
She waited for the waitress to leave before picking up her fork and tucking in. Slowly, with deliberate intent, she ate one delicate bite after another, taking careful note of the bubbles rising in the champagne glass like so much effervescent joy. As the meal progressed, her mood grew stronger. By the time she laid down her fork, her mood was like a bird dashing in celebratory flight about the room. When she summoned the waitress for the bill, her mood was as light as a feather on a bird’s wing.
"Aren’t you going to drink your champagne or your wine? What a waste!" The girl’s eyes were saucers of incomprehension.
"No. It’s not a waste to face one's fears. Perhaps you could distribute my leftovers among the staff as an extra tip for your wonderful service. A tip that compensates for my sense of achievement in this tempting moment."
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