Thursday, January 21, 2010

A Perfect Woman - A Short Story

My, it's been a long time. Here's a short, under-500-word piece about a character I'm thinking about. Feel free to leave your comments below!

A Perfect Woman
By Kristen Berry

“You’re beautiful,” Mark said, “and smart, and funny, and wonderful. You’re perfect, really. The best girlfriend I ever had. I’m just . . . I’m not ready. I thought I was ready, but I guess I’m not. I’m not sure when I will be. And it wouldn’t be fair to make you wait – I couldn’t ask you to do that. Seriously Jane, you deserve someone better than me. Someone who can love you the way you deserve to be loved . . .”

Jane stopped paying attention. She could recite the speech by heart. The semantics varied, but the sentiment remained the same: It’s not you, it’s me . . .

She performed the next several acts on auto-pilot: she collected the few things she’d left around Mark’s condo (a nightgown, her pricey face cream, the novel on the nightstand), kissed Mark on the cheek and walked out the door with her head held high.

In the safety of her Mercedes, she allowed herself to weep. After five minutes, she pulled a tissue from her purse, blotted and buffed the tear streaks from her face, reapplied her lipstick and pulled away from the curb.

Jane drove to the nearest bookstore. After a moment’s pause in Periodicals she selected a copy of Italian Vogue, then located the travel section and selected a book at random: Philadelphia.
She walked into the salon around the corner.

“Jane,” called the receptionist. “I’m sorry, did you have an appointment today? We’re booked solid.”

“Please?” Jane asked, her smile charming. “It’s an emergency.”

The receptionist winked. “I’ll find a way to get you in.”

In the lobby Jane flipped through the magazine she’d purchased and ripped out a page.

“The usual blowout today?” the hairdresser asked once she was in the chair.

“No,” she said, placing the magazine page on the immaculate counter, “I want this.”

She spent the next two hours having her honey-colored hair died chocolate brown, several inches chopped off so the ends hovered precisely just over her shoulders, with bangs that just concealed her green eyes.

Then she drove home to her undecorated, pre-furnished one-bedroom apartment. She taped the magazine page to the bathroom mirror, and regarded her reflection. She wiped off her pink lipstick, replacing it with a nude shade, and traced her once naked lash line with black liquid, coating the lashes with more. She took a Polaroid camera from a shelf in her bedroom and turned it backwards, the flash illuminating her face. She tossed the photo into a shoebox filled with others just like it.

It took less than the time to transform her hair than to pack her things. Once on the other side of the door, she removed the key from her chain, placed it in an envelope with a note and a few hundred dollars, and pushed it through the mail slot.

And like a hundred times before, Jane was gone.