le bonheur de vivre

14

Elodie removed the sparkly orange nail polish from her cabinet and examined it in the palm of her hand. She never wore nail polish or makeup, and yet there was something nostalgic about it. Elodie removed the applicator gently, wiping the excess sunset-shade on her leg. It was gritty, old, and yet opulent, the golden specks glittering in the midst of the neon apricot. She had never been very good at painting her own nails, overlapping the polish onto her cuticles and edges of her fingers. So, to control her shaky left hand, she pinned herself down to her table and clamped her fingers down with her elbow. She pulled the brush out once more, a gout of orange dripping at its end. With a broad stroke down each of her fingers she painted her right hand, before moving onto the left that was significantly easier. Sticky and wet, it undulated the window's light across her nails. She pursed her lips and blew on them gently, before resting back into her wicker chair.

The light was thickening as the sun dipped below the horizon of the bay, turning her silk curtains into a shower of sparkles that frolicked across her walls and ceiling. It ran across the skin on her back between her panties and bra, shimmering along each strand in her hair. Her lips caught the light as well, plump and swollen, like her eyes. She rubbed them with the back of her hand once more and tested the surface of pinky nail, and the polish transferred to her finger. She left the nail messed up, placing the polish bottle back into the cabinet with her third finger and thumb.

On turning around Elodie noticed the sheer intensity and hue of the dusk light, and simultaneously noticed herself in the mirror. It would be a lie if one said she didn't see an intrinsically ethereal beauty in herself at that moment, from her sharp collar bone to the curve of her lower hips. Her hair tumbled down to her shoulders, curls glowing as they caressed her neck and upper back.

It was at that moment she decided to paint herself. In a swift sequence of actions she assembled a wooden board and some cartridge paper on the bed and arranged herself on the duvet so that she could pose and look in the mirror at the same time. She would use ink and a brush, the pot precariously balanced on the wooden board, the remnants of a glossy ebony liquid oozing around the base of its container (she should have bought some more in town, but she had been running on this ink for a year).

The duvet ran up around her ankles; she posed on her knees, her legs bent, leaning over the paper, slightly twisted when viewed from the mirror. The window cast light on her legs and the right side of her body, the sweat from her evening jog apparent on the joint at her hip.

The first few strokes were peaceful, the ink going on thick and smooth, capturing the elements she saw in herself. She followed by adding further detail, a u shaped curve for her upper breast, a v at her neck, her face blank. She left it, scared to use the thick, dense ink brush to portray her delicate features. 

There was a thud at the door, as someone attempted to come in.

"Elodie." her mother said from the other side, twisting the doorknob. It was locked. "Why didn't you come to dinner? We started at 9:30 like i told you and now its ten i doubt it'll still be warm for you."

"I wasn't hungry mama." Elodie had forgotten how long it stayed light for in the Caribbean summer.

"It's on the kitchen table if you want it. The guests and I are going to bed." Her voice was muffled through the wood.

"Goodnight mama. I'll see you tomorrow."

Her mother left without wishing Elodie goodnight, which Elodie took a note of. Peculiar it was, but perhaps she was just tired from the long day. Despite everything that had happened that day, every item Elodie had bent lower to burden upon her back, she felt awake, lustful for something to do. Dipping her brush into the ink once more, she looked up at her face in the mirror, and brought the tip to the paper. With three brush strokes Elodie began to describe the darker side to the right of her nose, leaving almond slits as eyes. But upon resting the brush on the paper to depict her mouth, she knew almost immediately she had got it wrong.