“Auntie! What are you doing here?”
“Goodness gracious, what’s happened to you? You look dreadful.”
Examining my face with narrowed eyes, my aunt kicked off her cheap outlet-shop sandals so that they landed right on top of my Fabio Rusconi heels and Repetto ballerina pumps neatly arranged in the entrance.
“What a poky little doorway you’ve got!” she squawked before clumping through into my apartment. “Your posture’s a disgrace, too . . . But that’s nothing new, I suppose. Come on, come on, stand up straight, that’s it.”
She tapped my spine with the back of her hand and I straightened up, staring in disbelief at the ugly scratches on the heels of the shoes she’d deposited in my doorway.
“Your hall’s tiny too!” she exclaimed. “You’re just like your mother! She had awful posture ever since she could walk. Born miserable, that one was. I was always pulling back her shoulders for her, but as soon as I let go she’d be straight back to slumping again. A person’s character expresses itself in their body, you know. Oh heavens, look at all this!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, my aunt sat down at my perfectly laid dinner table. The elegant minimalist chair, which matched the table, groaned as it accommodated a body significantly heavier than that of its usual sitter. I remained standing, staring incredulously at the finger-sized puncture that had appeared in the roast vegetable terrine. The film kept playing. The hair on Michelle Williams’s arms shone beautifully in the sunlight, and I felt a wave of jealousy toward all the blond women in the world who had never had to give depilation a thought.
“Heavens, it was hot out there,” my aunt said, flapping her collar to let in the air. “I’ve worked up a hell of a thirst. You don’t have anything to drink, do you?” Through my aunt’s synthetic sheer sweater with its cheap purple and gold sequins sewn into the shape of a tiger, I could see her graying undershirt. Her eyes followed me as I went to open the refrigerator.
“Goodness, even your fridge is tiny! I don’t know how you can fit anything in there,” she sniggered.
“I’ve only got perry,” I said.
“Perry? What’s that, then? Is it like sherry? Haven’t you got any wine?”
My aunt took the drink I held out to her.
“What a measly little bottle! This won’t go very far,” she said as she took a big sip. Then she opened her mouth wide and smiled in satisfaction. “Ooh, it isn’t bad, is it?”
My aunt stayed with me for dinner and watched the film through to the end. She didn’t show much interest in the story line, her eyes roaming inquisitively around the room, but during the scene where Michelle Williams’s character and another woman showered in the nude, her mouth fell open.
“You know, that’s something I’ve always thought was strange! The hair on foreign women’s arms and legs is so pale you can barely see it, but their hair down there is as dark as ours.”
“Right,” I agreed. She did have a point.
“I once heard that the color of people’s hair down there is the same as the color of their eyebrows, but that can’t be true, can it? I suppose that’s the place that needs the most protection, so the body puts all its power into making the hair there as strong and dark as it can.”
“Yeah, who knows.”
“Come on, there’s no use getting all embarrassed! I want to hear your real opinions about hair!”
Ignoring my aunt and the open palm she was striking on the table, I shoveled some Caesar salad into my mouth.
When the credits began rolling and I stopped the DVD, my aunt rested an arm on the table and leaned in conspiratorially toward me, as if she had been waiting all night for this moment.
“I think it’s about time we got down to business,” she said. “Tell me, young lady. What were you doing today?”
“Huh?” I stared in confusion at my aunt’s face, which was etched with deep lines.
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand me. What do you think you’re up to, eh? I know you’ve been deliberately weakening the power of your hair.”
“The power of my hair?”
“I was so concerned, I came rushing straight over. And what do I find? Everything’s all swish and swanky. It’s horrible. And what’s with all this pink rubbish you’ve got strewn around the place?”
My aunt held up between her thumb and forefinger the pink cushion she’d been leaning on, as if handling something unspeakably repulsive.
“Pink maximizes your romantic potential!” I cried. My aunt had succeeded in striking a nerve. I clenched my fists tight to hide my fuchsia-painted nails.
“What’s the point of talking about ‘romantic potential’ when you go around with a face like you’re sucking on a lemon?” my aunt said.
We glared at each other.
“Are you trying to pretend you’re happy with your life? Is that it? You think I don’t know all about that boyfriend who dumped you? Or that you only opened the door back there because you thought it might be him outside? Well, guess what? You landed me instead! Your old aunt sees ev-e-ry-thing, you know. Which is more than can be said for you! You didn’t even notice he was two-timing you, all that time. What a sorry state of affairs! You must be totally and utterly stupid.”
My aunt bulldozed on, tearing the lid off my Pandora’s box like someone charging into a clearance sale, or ripping the wrapping paper off a present without a scrap of delicacy. My vision clouded, and I felt my blood drain right down to my toes.
“So, what’s your plan, then? You’ve decided to start visiting these beauty salons, wasting your money on new clothes and makeup and all the rest so you can become beautiful and then have your revenge? Pah! You’re far too easy to figure out. How utterly pathetic!” With this last jab,
