Incandescence

By Ava Kuklis

A woman, mid to late 30s, though she appeared some years older due to her extensive use of cosmetics, stood paralyzed in a mirror. Incessantly tugging, tweezing, tweaking her eyebrows. Obsessively picking, plucking, pinching her skin. Delicately sifting through threadbare strands of fragile hair.

She wanted to be so beautiful that nobody could look away.

Layers of foundation, heavy contour, blush, and highlights overwhelmed pores that held any authenticity. Feminine wrinkles and minuscule blackheads hidden far beneath the light of day. Light purple shadow and false lashes did little to emphasize eyeballs that cannot be masked. Red painted the ingenuine injections that were her lips.

Dressed in an alluring, form-fitting scarlet V-neck dress accentuating her unnaturally thin figure. Over top of this despondent appeal was a light-washed fur coat reaching her mid calves. Black stiletto heels, crimson nail polish, a pearl necklace, and large pearl earrings made for the finishing touches of a stereotypical attire. Her utmost attempt as bait like a can of anchovies.

Her right pointer finger aggressively pressed the hairspray trigger which swallowed her head in a misty cloud that would cause detriment to the ozone layer. She continued to apply an absurd amount of perfume suffocatingly rather than seductively bombarding the sides of her neck followed by additional intentionally placed sprits on her wrists. The perfume smelt of fading youth and she fit the part.

First dates are opportunities for impression, opportunities for love at first sight. She was single, desperate, and victim to the dispassionate nature of one-night stands. Yearning for an other to unconditionally devote herself to. Forlorn at the idea of being forever alone, she’d whimper at the slipping away of her adolescent mien. She was lonely and time was burning out.

At any attempt at a redeeming attribute, she’d compulsively empty the entirety of her cheap facsimile purse into the hands of corporate marketing schemes. Profiting off the low self-esteem of ‘ugly’ consumers. Pockets of businessmen overflowing with the green misery of a society reliant on appearance. Any weakness in the human psyche is a profit to be made in the eyes of greedy vultures that are humanity.

Once her appearance had reached an admissible quality she proceeded to collect herself and take a taxi to her destination. When she arrived, precisely at eight pm, she was greeted with a dark brick building with large windows beaming with yellow light. Ahead of the entrance was an extended sidewalk continuing down the road bordered with parked cars and lamp posts. To the right of this high-end establishment was a meager alleyway, out of reach of the yellow light. Dark, damp, and murky like an undesirable shadow of the institution awaiting her.

She entered the restaurant and was seated at a private table for two. The tables were adorned with white tablecloths, fabric napkins, and silver silverware. A single candle atop the tables and cushioned red benches decorated the edges of the eatery.

Her date was a well-dressed man, average yet conventionally attractive in his appearance. She was immediately interested and impelled by him though admittedly she would settle for most as desperation lowered her standards. He politely shook hands but mild expressions of disgust grew as he stared at her veneer of a face, and her, slow to take the hint.

He was immediately, nearly automatically, almost instinctively, disinterested in her appearance as he fancied effortless beauty. Repeatedly, her goal was to attain effortless beauty, that being with effort. She was a trite identity deliberately constructed. Her plastic image failed to portray a genuine personality, so clearly a facade. The banal insincerity and insecurity was so blatantly obvious. She was obsessed with a surface-level appeal, constantly preoccupied with her own looks. Compulsive perfectionism. Rather than crafting a persona with a complexity she crafted a complexion.

As courteous as he was, he found her intolerable. Finally, he verbalized this repugnance, still trying his best to be considerate,

“you’re just not really my type,...sorry,”

There was a pause. Her blind optimism proved a humiliating embarrassment. She had been immobilized by the outright shame she endured. She didn’t utter a word and instead gathered her things defeated and left. Her tearful gaze pointed downwards and she cowered her way outside.

She dragged herself to the alleyway and collapsed onto the side of the dark brick restaurant. She was overwhelmed with an unfulfilled sense of longing but this rejection was not uncommon nor unexpected. Her arms crossed, her head down and her hand reaching for a cigarette in her pocket. To her left she was surprised to be approached by a restaurant worker on break, offering her a light. He presented an inviting smirk and she extended her arm to stretch her cigarette towards the flame.

Hairspray, perfume, cosmetics, fur coat, cheap fabric, the reminisce of red wine on her breath. She was a walking match.

Instantaneously she ignited with a glow she never had. Engulfed in a fiery blaze, the man stepped back in absolute shock. Her pain-ridden laments soon attracted those of the restaurant and passing by. Bystanders crowded the sidewalk stretching for the slightest glimpse of the spectacle.

Her skin welted, melted, and boiled as would a plastic barbie doll. Her hair fried and crippled in the smoldering heat. Her right hand burnt to a blackened crisp. Charred like charcoal and chipped like coal. She was completely mutilated and deformed. Any natural beauty she did possess was now incinerated.

Nobody could look away.

Ava Kuklis is an aspiring writer and artist from New York.