Girls Night Out

I stretched on tip toes for a shoe box on the top shelf of my closet. Pulling it down, I blew off a light coating of dust and opened it. Inside spooned a pair of stiletto sandals. Sitting down, I carefully put them on, adjusting the ankle straps. I gave a tentative flex of my feet. They were more accustomed to ballet flats and sneakers, flip flops and the occasional kitten heel. The stiletto felt high, rigid.

I walked to the mirror and smoothed my black cotton dress. My hair was pulled back into a sloppy bun. I tried to convince myself that it was fashionably sloppy. Frowning, I leaned closer to the mirror. Tiny shimmers of gray stood out starkly against the mud brown. Pulling at one offending strand, I contemplated dying my hair.

I used to dye it all the time. It was a joke amongst my friends. What color would Molly's hair be this week? Sometimes I went red. Sometimes burgundy. Once, I went blonde with disastrous results. Tilting my head sideways, I studied myself.

How long had it been since I really saw me looking back in the mirror

Where was the woman who had gotten once a month pedicures with the religious conviction of a zealot? Where was the woman who strode down city streets in high heels and short skirts? Where was the woman who waltzed up to men and asked for their phone number with the surety of response? Where was the woman who looked like a woman instead of a caricature of a mom?

My hair was shaggy. How long had it been since I had a hair cut? Six months? Ten? My nails were unpolished and uneven. How long had it been since I'd had a manicure? I thought back, calculating. It'd been the same time I'd had a pedicure. Almost two years ago.

I studied the black dress, the slight lumps that were visible under the fabric. I really had let myself go.

I frowned. Or was it that I stopped seeing myself in this mirror, but rather, saw myself in Tim's eyes? He had stopped finding me attractive long ago and I had transformed into his vision of me. From the frizzy hair to the unpolished toes, I was the picture of a frazzled stay at home mom.

I looked at my arms, exposed by the summer dress. A thin, pale line separated my bicep. Or, I smiled in self deprecation at my reflection, what should be a bicep. My tan lines were no longer those of bikinis and summer dresses. They were from the tees I donned to take the kids to the park.

Sighing, I reached behind me and grabbed a cardigan. Pulling it over my arms, I impulsively added a pair of bangles, listening to them clink together in satisfaction. Feeling better, I went back in my closet and dug out a small handbag, the colorful embroidery adding a splash of color to my black and gray outfit.

"What time do you think you'll be back," Tim asked walking into the room.

"I'm not certain. No later than ten, I'd imagine," I said grabbing a lip gloss off the dresser. "What do you think?" I asked, holding my arms out to the side.

"You look nice."

"Thanks." I shook my head at my own idiocy. Why did I expect more enthusiasm? Nice. It was a high compliment. Over the last six years, it was the only one I'd received. When I bought the black and pink lace negligee and sauntered into the bedroom, leaning against the doorjamb and asked what he thought, he'd replied you look nice before kissing my cheek and rolling over to sleep.

Putting my wallet in the handbag, I walked out the door, locking it behind me. I hurried down the steps to where my car was parked. Getting in, I flipped the visor down and applied gloss to my bare lips. High heels and lip gloss. It was going to be a wild night indeed.

This is a fictional post inspired by The Red Dress Club prompt to write something different. This is NOT a part of my Hidden Hollow stories. It's something different. It's actually a bit from my current work in process - an actual book. It's a little rough still, but I thought I'd toss it out there and share. Because, you know, it's different?

Concrit is very welcome here. As in, please do it.