. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gazing into a wall-length mirror, Elena cocked her head to the side, trying to decide whether a lilac blossom in her hair matched with her dress, sewn in post-war fashion. Did it make her look pure and ardent or credulous -- too adorned for a simple costume party? She picked up a picture of her great-grandmother, wearing the silk of 1930s wedding dress, tenderly done with hand-sewn stitches . She envied the steady look in her old-fashioned eyes. At times she thought of her, how history, with carriages, corsages and side-buttoned boots, would be such a lovely place to live in! "You look beautiful, my darling," said a voice from the threshold. Elena didn't have to turn because the mirror pictured a wan-eyed man with a simple shirt, buttoned to burst over an enormous stomach. The kind of stomach that would require a belt for its support, as a breast might need a bra. "Your mother would be so proud." "Thanks, dad," she said with forced simplicity, distastefully eyeing a glass of deflated champagne between his robust fingers. As if knowing the reason for Elena's scowl, the man rushed, "it's my first drink, I swear." Elena rolled her brown eyes to her own reflection, remembering the first time she had stopped caring about her father and started caring about his drinking instead. She had been only twelve, a stable-eyed and skinny-legged child, when she had found her father eyeing a small, aeroplane sort of bottle with the same lust in ...
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