Excerpts from
The Neon Garden
By Dorrit Willumsen
Marionīs Transformation
Sitting in front of the looking glass, Marion is employed on her usual morning occupation. She is examining her body. The perfect breasts are held high purely by their own muscular structure. They need neither wax nor silicone. Her stomach is flat. Her thighs long. And her feet without blemish.
The room around her is done in cool whites and blues. It is simply furnished and at this particular moment has the effect of a showcase around her body. It would not surprise her to see someone looking into it. And perhaps that is what is lacking. For it suddenly seems to her that something or other is missing. It is like a cold patch growing inside her, spreading out right to her fingertips and down towards her knees. She raps her fingers at the thought that she wants to bite her nails. But it is no use. She feels that something or other is missing. A cigarette? But that would give her yellow fingers. A lover? But that would give her dark rings under her eyes. And besides, thatīs something different. Itīs something more special. Perhaps something ugly. It is as though at this moment the exquisite beauty of the room and the body demands something dishevelled, repulsive and pathetic. Perhaps it is her wanting the dog. Time after time she has thought of acquiring a singularly ugly dog. But she has drawn back at the thought that it would need to be taken out.
Translated by Gale Kynoch
|
|
