She has three new spots that line her cheek like a constellation. She flips the magnifying mirror and walks into the bedroom to get dressed. She stares into her closet, studying it closely. She has the contents memorized, yet each visit is like the first. After ten minutes of trying on and quickly discarding clothes, she gives up and settles for the first outfit she pulled. It’s a variation of her standard outfit; black slacks, white blouse, black sweater. She has the soul of a woman who would wear red, but not the confidence.
Her intention is to touch up her make up, but once she returns to the bathroom, she is compulsively drawn to the magnifying mirror to again scan the constellation, which she has decided to name “The Old Maid’s Broom.” She’s not sure what the spots are but there is a feeling in the pit of her stomach that it must be bad, probably cancer. This is the same feeling she has with every new blemish, headache, or minor cut. Everything leads to cancer and she will die alone.
With that thought, she grabs her purse and determines that she is ready enough to meet her date for the first time. She runs her fingers through her long, chocolate-colored hair and grabs a hat to protect her curls from the damp autumn air. She can see her breath escaping in the light of the white moon as she walks out to the car with some hesitation. “It’s not too late to call and cancel,” she mutters to herself. “You don’t owe this guy anything.” But she’s never canceled on a date, ever. She has an unspoken fear that the dating gods would view a canceled date as a sign that she wasn’t willing to do the work.
She gets into the car, sighs, and throws herself into the mercy of the night.