REMEMBERING JAMES JOYCE
She stood before the mirror, where her reflection stared back at her. Her oval face was pale, and Rosemary had dusted some powder on her cheeks to enhance their attractiveness. However, her gaze was dull, as if hinting at something unpleasant, and her large, tired eyes revealed a heart full of melancholy. A pair of earrings sat on a small round table in the corner of the room, next to the grandfather clock that continued to tick. She was still uncertain about which ones to wear that evening: the green-stoned pair her mother had once given her, or the small hoops with pink beads a colleague had lent her that morning for the occasion. Dressed in the crimson gown the seamstress from across the street had just delivered, she looked back at her reflection in the mirror. She was still beautiful—slender, with a thin waist, and the white collar around her neck added a special glow to her face. She thoughtfully walked into the next room, where a table was perfectly set. Crystal glasses sparkled on the white linen tablecloth reserved for special occasions. In the centre of the table, a bunch of yellow daisies had been neatly arranged in a small ceramic vase.
The only sounds in the house were the steady ticking of the clock. It was a day in March when evening falls early, and the people in the neighbouring houses on St. Andrews Street—home to workers and sailors—returned early to close their windows, leaving behind the still crisp air of a late March evening. Rosmary glanced at the table again, wondering if everything was in order. Then she looked at the clock, which indicated a quarter to eight. Leonard had told her he would arrive by seven, and she couldn’t understand why he had not yet come. Anxiety coursed through her as she turned off some lights in the room and moved toward the window that overlooked the street. She opened the curtains a little, hoping Leonard wouldn’t see her peering out, but the street was deserted. Only a kitten meowed under the street lamp at the corner of the house across the road, where an old man appeared, limping and swaying as if he were drunk. Outside, it grew darker, the fog rolled in, and everything was enveloped in a milky haze; even the light from the street lamp was muted, casting an eerie stillness over everything.
By, Maria Miraglia,
Taranto, Italy.
