Read Online Flash and Filigree by Terry Southern - Free Book Online
Authors: Terry Southern
Ads: Link
freshen up her image while, if she were not alone, talking animatedly with anyone else who might be present.
It was Babs’ habit to do all three of these at once. This was not difficult since one of the sofas was situated at the proper level just opposite the dressing-table mirror. As she was alone now, however, she merely lay on the favored couch, legs stretched down and crossed under her tightly drawn skirt, one arm behind her head, and the other curved graciously forward holding the bottled coke that rested just on her diaphragm. She was quite deliberately relaxing, and for the moment not too mindful of her reflection in the glass, but did continue, perhaps out of habit, to focus her eyes there.
Sometimes, alone here in Nurses’ Rest Room, the girl would enjoy the most elusively delicious, and somehow unexpected transports of fantasy. These were not exactly vicarious, since they did not seem, really to concern her, even indirectly, but dealt rather with the reflection in the mirror, which she had to glance at from time to time as if to assure herself that the adventure was real after all. Today, however, for some reason or other, Barbara found the images too fragmentary, the sequences broken and unsatisfactory, or more precisely, unfair; so that after a few minutes she got up and sat at the dressing-table where she began to brush her hair, which she appeared to do with an infinite concern and tenderness, though actually she was absorbed in counting: twenty-five strokes each, to back and sides. Having no head for figures, she was very careful. Then she combed it and, finally, fluffed it here and there with her hand, setting to rights a temple-ringlet or two. She put on fresh lipstick and squeezed two blackheads from her nose, which she dusted then with very light powder. She believed that she was mostly appreciated for her fresh, natural look—which was, in a sense, true. Then at last she stood, and still before the glass where her eyes now were less adoring than critical, adroitly smoothed the back of the skirt, which was slightly wrinkled from lying with it so drawn under. She adjusted her habit completely, from collar and shoulders to the hem—first, frontally before the glass; then sideways, at which time, it still being before lunch, she drew in her belt one notch. That she was able to do this, had anyone else been present, would have come to her as an animated surprise. As she did it now, however, her face remained tranquilly grim.
After she was perfect, her movements became slower and more deliberate, yet were not without a certain luxury and grace, as though an added responsibility had been taken on, but one that was quite familiar. And then she walked about the room with an easy, inimitable assurance, holding the coke, which was only half-finished and, by now, quite flat.
A perfect white at the window, looking over the broad estate, the slopes of green and the planes of white cement, with her head lowered in absently sipping the coke, and her eyes raised round and wide, almost as in magic goodness, she could have been the one child-princess of an angel-cake kingdom, all white-iced and perfect. She was standing slightly back from the window, with the same cautious ease she had crossed the room, now in avoiding the everplay of Pacific breeze that stirred over the land with an anxiety that never left off lightness. So, back from the window and distrait, Babs was not aware of the car’s approach until it was there, rounding the gravel slope before her. It was a yellow convertible, and the girl’s first impression was that the occupants were movie-stars, since they both wore dark glasses, and the young woman at the wheel had her startling sun-like hair half hidden in a jet black kerchief, while her face shown brown as fine leather. She stopped the car at the Clinic door, and the young man got out, handsome and worldly, his dress, it appeared, richly casual. When he turned his back to close the car door and
It was Babs’ habit to do all three of these at once. This was not difficult since one of the sofas was situated at the proper level just opposite the dressing-table mirror. As she was alone now, however, she merely lay on the favored couch, legs stretched down and crossed under her tightly drawn skirt, one arm behind her head, and the other curved graciously forward holding the bottled coke that rested just on her diaphragm. She was quite deliberately relaxing, and for the moment not too mindful of her reflection in the glass, but did continue, perhaps out of habit, to focus her eyes there.
Sometimes, alone here in Nurses’ Rest Room, the girl would enjoy the most elusively delicious, and somehow unexpected transports of fantasy. These were not exactly vicarious, since they did not seem, really to concern her, even indirectly, but dealt rather with the reflection in the mirror, which she had to glance at from time to time as if to assure herself that the adventure was real after all. Today, however, for some reason or other, Barbara found the images too fragmentary, the sequences broken and unsatisfactory, or more precisely, unfair; so that after a few minutes she got up and sat at the dressing-table where she began to brush her hair, which she appeared to do with an infinite concern and tenderness, though actually she was absorbed in counting: twenty-five strokes each, to back and sides. Having no head for figures, she was very careful. Then she combed it and, finally, fluffed it here and there with her hand, setting to rights a temple-ringlet or two. She put on fresh lipstick and squeezed two blackheads from her nose, which she dusted then with very light powder. She believed that she was mostly appreciated for her fresh, natural look—which was, in a sense, true. Then at last she stood, and still before the glass where her eyes now were less adoring than critical, adroitly smoothed the back of the skirt, which was slightly wrinkled from lying with it so drawn under. She adjusted her habit completely, from collar and shoulders to the hem—first, frontally before the glass; then sideways, at which time, it still being before lunch, she drew in her belt one notch. That she was able to do this, had anyone else been present, would have come to her as an animated surprise. As she did it now, however, her face remained tranquilly grim.
After she was perfect, her movements became slower and more deliberate, yet were not without a certain luxury and grace, as though an added responsibility had been taken on, but one that was quite familiar. And then she walked about the room with an easy, inimitable assurance, holding the coke, which was only half-finished and, by now, quite flat.
A perfect white at the window, looking over the broad estate, the slopes of green and the planes of white cement, with her head lowered in absently sipping the coke, and her eyes raised round and wide, almost as in magic goodness, she could have been the one child-princess of an angel-cake kingdom, all white-iced and perfect. She was standing slightly back from the window, with the same cautious ease she had crossed the room, now in avoiding the everplay of Pacific breeze that stirred over the land with an anxiety that never left off lightness. So, back from the window and distrait, Babs was not aware of the car’s approach until it was there, rounding the gravel slope before her. It was a yellow convertible, and the girl’s first impression was that the occupants were movie-stars, since they both wore dark glasses, and the young woman at the wheel had her startling sun-like hair half hidden in a jet black kerchief, while her face shown brown as fine leather. She stopped the car at the Clinic door, and the young man got out, handsome and worldly, his dress, it appeared, richly casual. When he turned his back to close the car door and
Similar Books
