By Josje Weusten

Luna’s favorite is the blush-tinted one with soft Marilyn Monroe curls. After all, if defeat had a color, it wouldn’t be pink. The velvet mannequin on the chestnut side table is wearing the wig. She rearranges it before focusing her attention back on the Polaroids scattered next to it. More and more these days, her bedroom is also her workroom. The exhibition of her project opens next week, and the gallery wants her selection by the end of the day. It might be her last show, or in any case, the last she gets to see. Luna has a hard time choosing from the photos. It feels too permanent; she likes to keep her options open, go wherever life takes her. That’s why she never got married or had kids. She sighs and starts organizing the pictures by date.    

~

The man she worked with this time did a great job; she’ll give him that. He was a boy really, barely twenty-one. It was legal, but it still felt a little dubious. At more than thrice his age, she could’ve been his mother. Maybe even his grandmother. She hasn’t worked with men older than thirty for a long time now. The younger, the keener, and more likely to do what she wants without asking questions. Twenty-five had always been her lower limit, and she had hesitated when she saw him sitting in the bar. Yet he had reminded her of her first love, Tom. Just like him, every minute or so the boy flipped back his curtain bangs, which kept falling in front of his eyes. She’d been ignorantly healthy when shooting her first series with Tom. 

Figuring she had nothing to lose, she ordered Aperol Spritz for both of them, the same drink she’d had the night she lost her virginity. The young man told her his name, but she chose to forget it immediately, and she didn’t give him hers. She couldn’t allow herself to get attached to somebody, not now. Tonight, to her, he was simply Tom. They talked for a while, about the weather, the news, and the latest films. Nothing too personal. 

Half an hour later, she asked him to take her to his dorm, which turned out to be on the other side of the river. Some parts of the outer walls of the building had lost their plaster, and the yellowish light of the streetlamps shamelessly exposed the bare bricks and beams. In his room was a single bed, cramped against one wall, and a Formica-topped desk was pushed against another, a piece of cardboard wedged under one of its legs. As he opened the window with a push of his shoulder, a light breeze stroked her damp forehead. She expected and hoped to pick up the carnal scent of the dumpsters below, but her sense of smell had deteriorated too much. 

Luna slipped out of her cotton, knee-length dress and instructed him to lie down on his unmade bed facing her. She then folded his long, thin fingers around the camera. “You have to hold it like this,” she said, each syllable pronounced slowly and carefully.  

His eyes, which were green or brown depending on the light, never left hers, and he nodded to show he understood what was expected. 

“Keep it still,” she said. Otherwise, they’ll become blurry. When I come, take as many as possible.” 

Without wasting further time on instructions, she sat on top of him. Her graying pubes completely covered his upper lip. As he licked her clit, she glanced over her shoulder at the bulge in his worn black jeans and for an instant, thought about returning the favor, like she would have with Tom. Yet, she was too afraid he’d touch her, that he’d reach for her breasts. She turned back, fixing her thoughts and eyes on the lens, preparing for the recurrent flash of the camera.   

~

Luna stares at the photos she has picked so far: her face in monochrome, in various degrees of distortion, mostly with her eyes closed. Stills of a moment in which she was able to forget. If only she could stretch those seconds to last until the end. With a red ballpoint, she marks the pictures: checks and crosses. On the wall across from her is a brass-framed mirror. Leaning back in her chair, she stares at the reflection of her face and upper-body. Her skin is wax-pale. The new silk robe with embroidered flowers is draped over her shoulders, its long ribbon untied. It had been an impulse buy—the extravagance taking a considerable bit out of her meager life savings.

She hasn’t had the energy to get dressed yet, but she’ll have to put something on to visit the gallery. When she was younger, she’d place a pencil in the fold under her breasts to see if they were firm enough. The stick was supposed to fall down within seconds. Holding both of her breasts out, she leans forward. The white slash across her chest almost slices her nipples in two. She reaches for the pen. 

A minute later, the pen drops on the floor with a dull thud, and ink gushes out leaving a defeated pink stain.