short story: marilyn monroe stares at a mirror

Marilyn Monroe stares at a mirror. She’s lying naked, the sheets half covering her body. She has styled her hair, so much that the blonde strands are almost golden, like she is going out somewhere nice. But she has no plans for the day other than the mirror. She looks deep into her own eyes, trying to read them like she reads others. She makes a pouty face but quickly stops. She stares at her sides and her bum, which is propped up slightly in the air, long enough she forgets what she is staring at.

Mirrors lie, she thinks, right being left and left being right. And the camera adds ten pounds, they say. She wonders how others see her. She slowly rubs her hand down the skin of her arms and down her legs, as if the sense of touch will reveal what sight is not giving her. She imagines her eyes growing big cartoon legs, like in a Walt Disney movie, walking out of their sockets and onto the floor so they could look back at her body. What would they see? Would she like it?

She grabs the flab on her belly, pushing the skin together into funny shapes. She thinks of all the men who have flattered her. The compliments given through shy grins. And she thinks of all those men, millions of them, they tell her, lonely, sat alone with their Playboy magazines, Marilyn’s face winking at them, touching themselves to her figure. Surely it’s these men who give her the best compliments of all, she thinks.

She imagines the girl in the mirror with wrinkles. More wrinkles than the ones already starting to show. And she imagines her with white, wispy hair, starting to fall out. She pictures the body as being old and filled with years. She stares at the mirror, unsure of what she is asking it. The Most Beautiful Girl in The World, they tell her. But all she can see is the girl in the mirror.