An Apparition

Stumbling up the six flights of stairs to my tiny apartment, past midnight, past feeling, stumbling not because of that last glass of champagne, but because--as usual--I'm running on mostly nerves, far too little sleep, too little food and a fear of staying still. Through the door and I fumble for the light switch, my gloved fingers searching, sliding, connecting. The sudden light dazzles my nighttime eyes and through the brightness I see an apparition confronting me at the end of the hallway. High heels, impossibly long legs, a short smoke colored dress clinging to a slender frame, she moves nearer studying me, ignoring the cavalier slide of the dress as it reveals one pale gleaming white shoulder. A shining nimbus of dark hair frames a small, pale face too angular for beauty with sly grey shadow-smudged eyes, prominent cheekbones, and sulky red lips. I watch her and wonder why she so often seems such a stranger, there on the other side of the glass. She looks too tired for twenty-five, worldly and cynical like a picture in a magazine or one of those shadows that this city produces: an illusion that men dream of and small-town girls wish to be. The difficulty with such pictures, such shadows, is that they are just that--mere illusions, insubstantial as dreams. As soon as I step away from the mirror she ceases to exist. Take away the glamour which the night and the city have cast over her, remove her from the pages of the magazine and place her in a six floor walk-up in Spanish Harlem and she's just an ordinary, exhausted, confused yet determined young woman after a long night with the prospect of an even longer day ahead of her.