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BROKEN PIECES
She used to be a beautiful woman. That was the worst thing you could say about someone. And actually she had never thought so. She glanced at herself in the mirror and a sound of disgust escaped her mouth. Her red hear still matched her green-grayish eyes, but the marks of disappointment had started to show on each side of her mouth, in deep, thin lines. And she hated her body, ever since, but especially in the last years, when she could not manage to keep in shape, as she wanted to. Her daughter thought she was cozier like that. Bah, she hated it. She took one of the essential-body-repair-crmes out of her closet and applied it on her breasts. They got bigger as well, and anyway, she would not allow anybody to touch them, for years. She opened the drawer with her sexy underwear, that nobody ever saw, and she chose a lace-bra that pushed her breasts up, a faintly seductive attempt she could not enjoy considering her allover inability for well being. She went to the bathroom to apply make-up. It was her daily caress, a replacement for love. The cream, the powder, the mascara on her lashes, so many soft touches on her face no lover would be given the right to. She was aware of it, but did not think about how wonderful it would be to love another person, to be close to him and see herself in him, instead of the cold glass of the mirror that only reflected her imperfections. Another person, her husband, her friend, but they were far, far because she kept them at a distance, or because, anyway they would not know how to satisfy her. "You could be dressed like a queen", her husband had told her the other day. And she had cried. She cried every time someone reminded her of how unable she was to deal with money, to save a little, and not to spend it on useless shmonzes that she did not really need. "But I need compensation now", she had told him, ironically analyzing her neurosis, this need to spend money on little things, ending up eventually with nothing left for traveling to Paris, to see her only daughter. Her eyes rested on her picture. Her soft dark-blond hair and her wonderful brown eyes, her smile of "nobody can resist me". The ache of jealousy and love provoked a sudden choke. Her daughter. She would do anything for her, if she only could. For seven years she has lived in Paris, studying philosophy and love. She sometimes felt that she did not need her, that she did not know how to be a mother. Her husband was very close to their daughter; he always knew how to love her. He could just jump on a plane and go to see her, every time he felt like it. She built up problems, huge walls of obstacles that she could not manage to see through. She promised her every time that she would come, and lately, she felt that she was not welcome anymore. Another way of hers to make life impossible to live. She retracted from people, left them alone, went to her room to cry, by herself, pitying her life, trying to put pieces together that were broken so long ago, that the picture they should fit into no longer existed.

She folded her hands around the picture frame, and hot tears rushed down her cheeks, the wonder-curve-mascara said good-bye to her lashes. The dog entered the room, slowly, heavily, and approached her, carefully, he started to lick her face, and she smiled, faintly, as if he was the only creature that managed to give her love. She tapped his head, and got up. Drawing the energy she needed for the day from an invisible source. She opened her closet and chose a dark-green skirt and a white shirt. After all, she was a positive thinker, she loved life, and she tried to convince herself, like so many days before. The skirt started to tighten around her hips and she cursed, silently. She envied her daughter. For her strength, her beautiful body, and for the love that was around her. All these people that love her, and she had cried so much these past few months. Calling her up a lot, and asking for advice, for comforting words. The man she loves had doubts. How could she help her, with all the failure in her life, all the wrong love she gave? But she managed quite well, she thought, to tell her about youth, her own youth that had been too short, the stories told so many times that her daughter must wonder how wisdom could be sucked out of them, again and again. About love and its weird twists that occur in time, coming out of nowhere. Couldnt I teach her anything at all, she sometimes told herself, like pretending indifference, that should become a second nature, to make the other one crave for you. But her daughter had another temper, she hated these games, she either loved someone or she didnt, and if she did, she gave everything, her soul and heart. She took another cup of coffee from the bar and sat down in the living room, lighting a cigarette. She had another hour before she had to go to work, to take the dog down, and to think. So many times before she had sat in this same place, the place her daughter had run away from. Every time she came back home, she would sleep at her grandfathers place, and pay her visits, in the morning, for breakfast. And they would both sit and talk and smoke, for hours, until she would have to rush to her work. She missed her, and tried not to think about the small tragedies her daughter always provoked. Bluntly putting her finger on the right places that would hurt her, show her how naked she was, how incapable. But she liked to listen to her, to her romantic stories about her loves. How she loved her boyfriend without boundaries, and that it was perfect happiness they shared, and how he would forget it from time to time, take it for granted and hurt her, doubting his love for her. And she would break down, but just a little, succeeding to recover her strength quickly, trying to show her mother that these problems were good, that they were real. Tonight she had to go out with her husband and some friends they had not seen in years. Actually they had seen nobody in years. Each one of them living their own life. She had to order tickets for the theatre. Long minutes waiting on the line, losing her temper as usual. But she had managed and they would really go. Like a couple. She had almost forgotten how it felt. They had pretended for so long, and now he works in another city.

The day passed slowly, phone calls and fights. She sometimes felt like killing them all. The lawyer she worked for was also her friend, not her boyfriend as she would not stand his touch, but they spent the light of their time together. She was not even able to have a lover, she thought. Did she really hate sex? Did she think it was dirty? Not the act itself, but the sheer thought of giving your body, your most protected and fragile inside to another person frightened her. Her heart was virginal. The meeting with the friends and the husband was set for five oclock. Having dinner early because of the long evening at the theatre. She thought about changing before, and then about her closet, full of clothes that she had no desire to wear. She called the housekeeper to ask her to take care of the dog. "At least I think about him. Poor simple creature that needs me." And she took her bag, went out, took a ride in the underground to meet them. In a fancy restaurant that artists would go to. Her husband would be late, of course, and she would play the part of the abandoned woman, as usual. And she tried to figure out if it will fit her one day. She checked her face in a little mirror, felt like stretching out her tongue to her reflection but thought it embarrassing in a public place. The signs of the morning tears had remained faintly around her eyes, but people could think it was the wind, that had made her eyes wet. He drove slowly around the block, his nervousness well hidden inside, he was looking for a parking space. He tried to be on time, just once, to avoid her hurt face all evening long. To make her look for another reason, that she will certainly find, to make him feel guilty, eternally, for her own misery, that he will never understand. He parked the car, luckily, only a few steps away from the restaurant. "How will I tell her? he wondered and entered the restaurant, they all turned to him, got up to greet him, the famous journalist everybody knows. She looked at him tenderly amused and frowned, ironically. Will he kiss her; will she feel something, somewhere? He was only minutes late, and she had to find something else to be angry about. He sat down and started to tell stories, about crazy politicians, and it could go on for hours like that. They all listened carefully, to his talent of entertaining. Since he was regularly on television, people looked at him, even more, and if they did not know him, they tried to figure out where to put him. Waiters would come up to him and tell him the story of their life as if he could do something, as if he were the voice of the crowd. What will we talk about next, she wondered. But she could always count on her husband to talk about something of public interest, to avoid the discussion of the subject why they had not met in such a long time, for example. They will understand that he is under a lot of pressure, that he works in another part of the country, that he has trouble to manage everything and that eventually he does it wonderfully and they will be happy to be able to spend this evening together. She admired him, his ability to live, not to show fear if he had it at all. And after all, she was still here, on his side, after all this time, and she breathed out, happy suddenly, just for this moment she felt that she was his wife and it made her proud.

The theatre distracted them for a short while. Some stupid pre-feminist play that made everybody wonder who they were. But they could not talk about it afterwards. They already had dinner before. She got into the car, like a princess. He held the door for her. They drove silently back to the flat. The dog greeted them, weakly. He got old. She wanted to talk but suddenly felt too weak to cry. He did not know how to talk to her. He only knew how to console, how to tell her not to worry. She went to her room, waving him goodnight. To remove the caress of the morning. He hesitated, wanted to knock on her door. He whispered: "Darling, tomorrow I will go to Paris." But the sound of the water stream had already swallowed her up.