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A Mirrored Reflection |
| Written by Sharon Chance | |
| Sunday, 23 March 2008 | |
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Share it:      A Mirrored Reflection
With a flick of her wrist to add a final swoosh of mascara to her already blackened eyelashes, the slender young girl stepped back from the bathroom mirror to admire her handiwork. Tight jeans hugged her lithe figure, a plunging neckline showed off her natural attributes, and shiny baubles sparkled at her throat and ears. She looked good. A blue smoke ring floated in front of her face and she slapped at the air to hurry it along, her mass of blond curls swinging as she swatted at the offending odor. "Do you mind?" she asked the older woman who was perched on the countertop, swinging her silver Manolo Blaniks in time with the muffled but driving beat that filtered in through the walls. Flicking an ash off her purple snakeskin pant leg, the woman shrugged her shoulders and took another drag off her long, thin cigarette. "Got enough war paint slathered on, honey?" she asked the girl, one eyebrow lifted elegantly, her gaze moving slowly, assessing the younger competition. The girl looked back in the mirror, checking the state of her face. "I think I look pretty good," she replied. "Jealous?" The woman snorted. "Please!" Extinguishing her smoke in the damp sink, she hopped off the counter, turning to inspect her own image. Fluffing her auburn mane and smoothing her black silk tank top over her still-slim hips, she smiled, satisfied with her style. She still had it. She looked at the young girl's mirrored reflection. "Who are you out to impress?" she asked the teen beauty. Jutting her chin out defiantly, the girl scowled. "Anybody who's interested," she said sarcastically. "I'd be careful, it's a circus out there," the woman advised. "I guess you'd know about that." "Yep." A hard look briefly passed across the woman's face. She thought back to when she was a fresh-faced young thing, a mirror-image to this insolent chit standing beside her. "I sure do." She thought about hot it started. Being backstage at a major concert was a thrill of a lifetime to her, and she and her friend had ducked into a nearby bathroom to check their outfits and makeup before going out to take over the world of rock and roll. Tight jeans, even tighter tops, sky-high heels and big, fluffy hair were the uniform of the night, and she and her pal were dressed to conquer. Strutting out of that long-ago bathroom, they had the world by the tail. The band that night had sounded much like the one performing tonight, and she had her eye on one handsome guitar player. Her friend had scored all-access passes, and they were determined to have just that - all access. The music had been pumping, and the beer and wine was flowing freely that night. She and her friend had danced and gyrated to the tribal beat that drove their favorite band's sound. She had caught the eye of the guitar player, as well as most of the crew that night. She had been lucky. Slightly drunk and full of bravado after the show, she had made her move on the man she desired, and her clumsy advances had been appreciated and reciprocated. But unlike the normal "love ‘em and leave ‘em" kind of guys on the road, he had been a true gentlemen, and very sweet and protective of a silly young girl. They had made a special connection that night. Her friend hadn't fared as well, and had been left in a second-rate motel room the next morning, damaged and scared for life. She shook her head. Long time ago and it seemed so far away. Today's girls seemed more ballsy, more daring. Maybe she was just getting old. No, not old, just older, as Bon Jovi would say. She looked at the young girl standing next to her once again. Would what she say next make a difference? Who knew, but it had to be said. She sighed. "I've been down that road," she said. "It looks like fun, and it can be fun, but it can be dangerous too. Depends on how you handle yourself." "What do you mean dangerous?" The girl's voice wavered a bit, betraying her youth. "I've seen your type...hell, I was your type, hon. You strut out like a hen on parade and you'll have every **** out there standing at full attention, and I don't mean roosters." The woman leaned against the counter, crossing her legs at the ankles, and studied the girl's reaction to the blunt statement. Satisfied with the shock that crossed the young smooth features, she went on. "What'cha gonna do if someone takes you up on your invitation?" she asked, peering hard at the girl. "What invitation," the girl asked, feigning innocence. "I'm just here to party with one of the greatest bands around, that's all. I'm not being a tease. I just want to look good." "Wanna bet?" the woman retorted. "You go out there looking like you do right now, and having that kind of attitude you're sporting, and its open season on your goods." "Afraid they won't look at you with me around, ol' lady?" The girl daringly sneered at the older woman, and then immediately regretted her words as a mask settled over the woman's face, hard and cold. "I've put in my time, sweetie," she told the girl through clenched teeth. "I only have to impress one man now, not the masses. You on the other hand had better walk a straight line or there will be hell to pay." The woman turned to walk out of the dingy backstage bathroom, and then paused to look back at the girl. "Remember, I'm watching you," she said, pointing a manicured red-nailed finger at her. The girl pouted and crossed her arms across her ample chest. For a moment, the sophisticated makeup and expensive outfit couldn't hide the temper that threatened to mar the persona she had worked so hard to cultivate. Stamping her foot in her pointed red leather boots, she snerled her nose at the woman. "You sound just like Daddy, Mom," she said, stomping out of the bathroom ahead of the woman, and muttering about not being able to have any fun. The woman sighed, gathering her wits about her. Being a rock star's wife had its perks, but being the mom of a rock star's teen-aged daughter was pure hell! Leaning back against the counter, she fired up one more cigarette. She could hear the screaming guitar lead that was as familiar to her as her own name coming to an end. Checking her appearance one last time, she was pleased to see no tell-tale wrinkles or crowsfeet lurking on her face. Sixteen years later, and she had held up well. Now, where was that cute guitar playing husband of hers...
Copyright 2008 Sharon Chance |
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