"…In olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked upon as something shocking. Now Heaven Knows! Anything goes…" - Cole Porter The head stared at itself in the mirror. Late afternoon shadows danced across the smeared makeup covering the once beautiful features. Donna had been watching the head for some time, but it was only in this moment that she wondered if she hadn't applied a bit too much rouge to her mother's face. She stepped away in order to view her handiwork from a better perspective. No, everything was just fine. The thought made her smile.
Donna turned away from the head when she noticed the blood that had splattered and dried across her arms, jeans and tee shirt. Oddly, she hadn't been aware of it before. She hurried towards the small adjoining bathroom, almost knocking over a dish of half-eaten food lying on the edge of her mother's vanity table, beside the head. She needed to start over and be fresh and clean for Alan. She showered and changed into a white satin slip, throwing the stained clothes into the gilded hamper.
She returned to the bedroom. Peering into the same mirror as the head amused her. Blood still dripped onto the vanity's beveled glass top. She picked up the ivory-handled brush and began to stroke her long, lustrous black hair. The bristles against her scalp made her feel all tingly inside, just like Alan did whenever he touched her in her secret places. A smile came to her lips with her next thought. She would pile her long hair up on top of her head so that Alan could take it down, pin by pin, until it fell free across her naked shoulders.
It didn't matter now what Mama Sarah thought about her hair or her white slip or her choice of a husband or anything at all. Mama was just a severed head sitting in front of the mirror on the vanity table. Mama's things were hers. She grabbed one of the silver combs and twisted her hair on top of her head. She pulled several wisps forward so that they would fall seductively in front of her ears.
A fly appeared and landed on the nose. Donna watched, fascinated as she fit the edges of the comb into place and snapped her mother's sapphire earrings onto her alabaster lobes. The insect seemed to be licking up the blood. Was that possible? Or was it simply her imagination? Certainly the fly was buzzing excitedly all over the green and yellow room that always whispered of gardenias. That was Mama's favorite scent. As she watched the fly land on the canary yellow drapes, she wondered if that scent would ever fade away.
