The Deception Of Living My Life Without Me

Like every morning, my life restarts. After running along the waterfront for a while, I jump into the shower and start the cold water. I stay there for five minutes, while the frozen water slides over my face and runs all over my body. I leave the imprint of my wet feet on the carpet and I am careful not to let a drop fall out.

I press the bottle of body oil, in the meantime my figure is reflected little by little, like coming out of a dream, in the circle of the mirror marked by the steam. I try to recognize myself in an image that has always appeared alien to me. I slide and spread the oil slowly between the drops of water drawn on my body, without leaving a single centimeter, from the toes to the ears.

My figure is reflected little by little, like coming out of a dream

I move on to the makeup, following each step in perfect order, as if I were painting a unique painting that will go up for auction. First the face, then I focus on the eyes that have the same vital expression of a Modigliani. I highlight the almond shape, sculpting my lashes to infinity and beyond.

I always finish with the mouth, fleshy and well defined, with the carmine that will stand out more and will challenge the light of day and the season. I comb my hair, part on the right side, perfect to the millimeter, and a lock of hair gathered behind my ear. I finish by brushing my teeth, flossing and rinsing for five minutes.

And then the final touch, two sprinkles of my favorite perfume on each ear, one on each wrist, another between the thighs.

I walk around the house still naked and barefoot on the parquet, making the same sound as my cat when she moves around. I open the closet and look at my collection, for the most part still labeled. I choose the underwear, always coordinated, and I let the clothes fall lightly on my still shiny and wet skin.

I open the fridge and prepare a smoothie of seasonal vegetables and fruit, drink some and heat a cup of green tea. I choose a pair of high-heeled shoes, put one of the rings from my emerald collection on the ring finger of my right hand. It bothers me to see it paired with the left hand wedding ring.

I take my briefcase, go down to the parking lot, sit on the fragrant and brilliant bubble that is my navy blue bentley, turn on the radio, “Barcarolle” from Offenbach leaves and head to the office again today. Sometimes, before I go out, I  forget to read the note my husband leaves me at home every morning. If this happens, I call the cleaning girl to ask her to open it, I want my husband to not find it closed when you get home. I have been careless all my life, down to the stupid details, even the important details.

When I walk into the office, I put my life on the clock of habit

I arrive at the office, from the reception through the row of desks that lead to my study, a staircase of increasing movements follows each of my steps: I notice how each employee straightens up in his chair, with his faces still marked by that typical look he gives lack of sleep. They greet me with a smile in which I always appreciate the tension and fear, this makes me feel powerful, while they see them miserable.

My working day must always take place in the same way, in my way, at my own pace, in a totally effective and decisive way, with no margin for error. On the contrary, I get upset and my blood boils in my veins, sometimes I even get to fire someone.

When I get home, I pour myself a glass of wine and smoke a couple of cigarettes on the terrace while I observe the lights of the tallest buildings in the city, below mine. My husband looks for me and hugs me, I feel the nausea grow. I can’t wait for the weekend to arrive when “for work reasons” I will have to go away, but to actually be in the arms of my lover.

Nothing makes me sick, absolutely nothing, only rarely when I see someone smile, I feel that something moves inside me. I don’t know when or why I forgot that gesture. Sometimes, like now, I put myself in front of the mirror and feel a smile, but it is in these moments that I collapse more, because it is not mine, because that emotion appears grotesquely sad.

Only when I see someone smile do I feel that something moves inside me

Seeing myself so depersonalized in front of the mirror, I think I am just a beautiful renovated facade that hides a ruined building, a fruit artificially preserved in a room, which if brought to light will eventually decompose for lack of life. It is only now, when I find myself naked in front of myself and in front of anyone who wants to read me, I feel more fragile and vulnerable.

However, I want them to see it, I want them to know it, I want to write it, shout it, tomorrow as soon as I enter the office – Gentlemen, I am nobody, I am dead, I live my life without me! ” – I want to shout it, go out on the street and hug anyone who meets me and beg that they tell me how they can be happy.

Two tears, just two, run down my cheek. Then I am invaded by a kind of calm and a question arises that perhaps could anticipate the answer to the rest of the questions: isn’t this the beginning to find myself where I would like to be?

And I just hope that tomorrow, when I wake up, my armor won’t close completely again, continuing to deceive me, locking me up with my hands tied inside myself. As she has done so far, prisoner and blind in an existence of presumption that oppresses me and hurts me, making me forget everything that I have written to you now, crying.