Her hooded eyes stare out of the oil paint, her iris colour indeterminate. A stranger in today’s world, she smells of mildewed woodworm casts and faded turpentine.
My new reading glasses perch on my nose. I brush the painting, gentle strokes loosen surface grime, attending her face with care. She holds herself hunched up, nameless in her ermine-trimmed gown. Rubbing my fingers, arthritic bones screeching, how much time and pain will she take from me.
I contemplate how old she is, the tightness of her dress, corsets and layers, jewels heavy around her neck, earrings pulling on her lobes. Some of her paint is unstable. Previous repairs have blighted her canvas. I will reveal and restore. With the removal of old varnish, her skin becomes flesh-toned, the sallow colour lifting. Her eyes begin to sparkle, a clear speck of lime white.
My own repairs have left me scarred, the tremor in my fingers, knuckles swollen, the sparrow wings fluttering in my chest. I long to eradicate my weariness, refresh my face, but my experiences linger and hold tight.
Blue eyes shine out, creamy skin with peach blush on her cheeks. The texture is vibrant and alive. Sweeping a cleansing swab across her mouth, her smile turns up at one corner, red ochre brightening. I mirror her, teasing the muscles of my face.
She is vital and fresh, her restoration beguiles me, invigorating me with her transformation. I smile at her, remembering the feel of my teeth against my lips, rejoicing in the movement.
Her hooded eyes were a trick of the old varnish, now her delicate eyelids gleam with youth. She nods her thanks as she straightens her shoulders, and views the world in wonderment. The achievement thrills me. My fingers itch to start another.
Joyce Bingham is a Scottish writer whose work has appeared in publications such as Flash Frog, Molotov Cocktail, Ellipsis Zine, Raw Lit, and Sci-fi Shorts. She lives in Manchester, UK. When she’s not writing, she puts her green fingers to use as a plant whisperer and Venus fly trap wrangler.
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