Lipstick last, her hand trembling, caressing pale lips with the redness of ripe cherries. Pausing for a moment, the portend of something freezing her fingers with sudden dread. Twisting on the stool to peer into the twilight where the world beyond the window seeped through the curtains in a shaft of blinding light.
Turning back at last. Dismissing her fears with a smile seduced by the reflected image complete and so totally flawlessly real that desire danced free in a twilight world that was deaf to any other. Deaf to the turning of a key in the lock and the opening of a door. To the calling of a name in a voice far too familiar and footsteps rising up the stairs one by one, curious of the silence and the light in darkened room on a Sunday afternoon.