Wednesday, November 23, 2005
It was a work in progress. It was a labor of love. She hadn't had many chances lately to doll herself up nice and fancy. Sure, she would dress up for Wednesday night bingo, but this night was special. She was going to go the whole nine yards. She hoped.
She stood in front of the full length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door. She primped and looked at her reflection, changing poses to find her best side. Her alabaster skin was in stark contrast to the dark towel wrapped around her torso. The towel had been too small to cover her breasts, and as such, the gelatinous hillocks hung well below her waist. They appeared to roll like beach balls with her every movement. She tried to cup them, one in each hand, so that her large nipples and aereolae would be pointing straight ahead like they had once done ages ago. Their mass however was too great for but one hand and they spilled forward and downward, victims of age and gravity. Unrelented, she used two hands on the left one to acheive the desired effect. She chuckled and said alound, "It takes two hands to handle one of these whoppers!"
She loosened the towel to let it fall to the floor. It fell only from her rear and her hips. It hung in place in the front, pinned to her abdomen by her breasts. She sighed and pulled at the towel until it finally slipped free from the vise-like grip. The dark patch of hair, which she could only see with the aid of a mirror, looked almost out of place against the backdrop of milky flesh. "I guess that wasn't such a good idea after all," she said as she looked over at the mascarra brush on vanity table. She mused, "Darn it, the damned carpet don't match the curtains." Her eyes were looking at the hair atop her head. It was light gray with a bluish tint. "That old bastard won't be able to see 'em both at the same time anyway."
Once again she begin to primp, turning left and right, looking herself over from head to toe. Although her rump was still wrinkled from the bath she said, "It's not a bad ass for a grandmother." She placed her hands on her hips and added, "Yes Gertie, you look purty good, as ol' Ben used to say."
Back in her bedroom she reached for the jar that contained her face. "This stuff is mine and Tammy Fae's secret," she said. It would have probably been easier if she'd used a putty knife, but she dilligently used a small pad to apply the paste-like substance to her, neck and breasts. Next she dabbed it onto her arms and legs to cover the liver spots. She had one more task to perform before she would start dressing, and grabbing the large plastic container of talcum powder she began to sprinkle it on herself from head to toe. When she was done, she shuffled her large slippered feet over to the bed, a cloud of white dust rising from the floor with each step. Another cloud arose from the sheets as she plopped herself down onto the edge of the bed. She carefully unfolded her sexiest nightwear which had been stashed beneath her girdles for as long as she could remember. There were two pieces, powder-blue with white lace frills and decorated with green satin ribbons and a matching bow. The pants piece slipped up and over her hips and rear end easily enough. She had to struggle, however, to get into the top. When finally she had yanked and tugged hard enough, if felt like it a perfect fit. "Like a nine foot into a size seven shoe," she thought to herself.
She shuffled back to the bathroom to model herself in the full-lenght mirror. Even that far from the bed, whisps of talcum clouds trailed in her wake. She studied herself for several moments and grinned. "Pamela Anderson, eat your heart out!" She knew she probably looked more like Anna Niclole Smith before she lost the weight. Then she became sullen, "Bah. I look more like the departing end of a Clydesdale, who am I kidding?" The reflection looking back at her was showing that the "sexy" top was straining at the seams. There was more of her breasts exposed than covered, separated by the chasm of five or more inches of cleavage.
She was startled by a knock at the door to her apartment. Her spirits were uplifted. "Well, I'll be. Ben is early. He must really be looking forward to our date." She felt like she was walking on air as she traipsed,as best a woman in her 70s could traipse, to the door. "I hope he remembered to bring that bottle of Boone's Farm, coz this old lady is thirsty!"
To her dismay, when the door was opened, there stood Tillie and Sarah, the two sisters who lived down the hall. "Yes?" she said to them, and stepping aside she bid them admittance.
"Oh, we can't stay, Gertie," Sarah stated in her gravelly voice. "We just came to ask if you heard the news?"
Gertie knew all too well that these two biddies were the gossip whores of the building. If there was something that you didn't want anyone to know, it was their mission to make sure everyone did know. "No, I don't think I have. Who got locked out of their apartment this time?"
It was Tillie who spoke next, "Ah ... No, that's not it. Another neighbor of ours left this world today." She paused before she asked a question to which she already knew the answer, "Did you know old Ben Smythe?" She didn't wait for Gertie's reply, but lowered the boom, "Well he died in his sleep about an hour ago."
If it was at all possible, she grew ashen and gasped. She didn't hear, she didn't want to hear anymore as Sarah began to speak again. "May I say, Gertie that you look pretty today. Are you expecting company?"
Even as Gertie was shutting the door in their faces, Tillie, as she was wont to do was attempting to get in the last word, "Yes, ain't she purty?"
Suddenly she felt tired. She needed to take a nap. As she shuffled over to he bedroom she said aloud, "If that isn't just like a man to up and die before our date. You'd think the son of a bitch would've waited until after the date." She lowered her head, and although no one was around to see her, she wiped a tear that had
formed in the corner of her eye. "The old fool probably wouldn't have been able to get it up, anyway!"
She stood before the bed for a moment before removing her "sexy" aparrel. Naked, she lay atop the sheets and stared at the ceiling. She was praying that God would take her, like he had taken Ben, while she was sleeping. In another thought, she cancelled that wish. "Tillie and Sarah have had enough gossip for one day. I'll be damned if I want to be a part of the same gossip with Ben." She sighed deeply, "Ben, you old coot!" Like her, Ben had no living family. Her breathing was uneven as she fought the battle between grief and anger.
Gertrude Smythe joined her ex-husband Ben that afternoon.
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door,
Who is it for?
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
Curmudgeon responsible for this post: Hale McKay at 12:05 AM