Naomi had always been taught that introspection was the
highest form of reflection. For years, she had envied the hermit, the glamour
of solitude, the aloof sort of fame that comes from being easily and happily alone. Few
people have the talents that lead to such a fame, and even fewer actually
achieve it; Naomi was neither. She had spent so much of her adolescence
attempting to be aloof and separate from the main; as a child, she had silenced
her critics by pointing out that no man
is an island, and had given herself her own space.
Deep within her stomach, however, she had found an anxiety for other people. It manifested itself in hair extensions and carefully applied mascara, no longer a costume purely for her mirror and the Narnia within her bedroom but now for the world; it had eaten her younger self whole and replaced it with something beautiful and cruel. Naomi knew that her behaviour lay on a razor’s edge between her pride and the quiet awareness she had of her own terrible leverage, her own ability to ruin the thoughts of others.
In the mirror, she saw luck. Naomi scraped six foot in heels, and had defined herself by the long, wavy blonde hair she kept; a wry signpost to the fifties, some visual reference of fashionable intelligence. Her clothes were a testament to her ability to reckon the eyes of others; sleek and only revealing in one place, as if she had ducked under an invisible quota on women’s dress. She fogged herself with a light mist of perfume and left her cave.
Naomi lived with her father, a man who revelled in his specialties. He was a man of details and deep, fundamental knowledge of the function of things – in his case, carpentry. He made beautiful things for people to ignore, so Naomi made an effort not to. As a result they were very close, physically affectionate in the way some daughters get to be past the age of ten, safe enough not to care.
“Morning, Dad.” Fifteen years of the same house had established strict seating traditions, and Naomi took hers (back to the window, light out of her eyes).
He was a kind-eyed man, broad and slow-souled. He moved carefully, kissing Naomi on the cheek and settling across from her as they both poured out their cereal. There was a quiet conclave between them, a silence of consumption that lingered long after Naomi had grabbed her bag and left the house. In their home, noise was foreign.
Deep within her stomach, however, she had found an anxiety for other people. It manifested itself in hair extensions and carefully applied mascara, no longer a costume purely for her mirror and the Narnia within her bedroom but now for the world; it had eaten her younger self whole and replaced it with something beautiful and cruel. Naomi knew that her behaviour lay on a razor’s edge between her pride and the quiet awareness she had of her own terrible leverage, her own ability to ruin the thoughts of others.
In the mirror, she saw luck. Naomi scraped six foot in heels, and had defined herself by the long, wavy blonde hair she kept; a wry signpost to the fifties, some visual reference of fashionable intelligence. Her clothes were a testament to her ability to reckon the eyes of others; sleek and only revealing in one place, as if she had ducked under an invisible quota on women’s dress. She fogged herself with a light mist of perfume and left her cave.
Naomi lived with her father, a man who revelled in his specialties. He was a man of details and deep, fundamental knowledge of the function of things – in his case, carpentry. He made beautiful things for people to ignore, so Naomi made an effort not to. As a result they were very close, physically affectionate in the way some daughters get to be past the age of ten, safe enough not to care.
“Morning, Dad.” Fifteen years of the same house had established strict seating traditions, and Naomi took hers (back to the window, light out of her eyes).
He was a kind-eyed man, broad and slow-souled. He moved carefully, kissing Naomi on the cheek and settling across from her as they both poured out their cereal. There was a quiet conclave between them, a silence of consumption that lingered long after Naomi had grabbed her bag and left the house. In their home, noise was foreign.
No comments:
Post a Comment