My mother was glamorous in a way I knew I never
would be. Velvet belt buckle. Mascara lash. Miniature
crimson lipstick alive in the pocket of a purse. Her
bow mouth was forever being twinned to a tissue.
I never would wear that black windowpane see-
through blouse, mother-of-pearl buttons tracing the
path down her spine. Every woman was her rival. You
could say seriousness made me impossible, exactly
the same way beauty made her. I understand men.
Some like to have one woman in their arms, while a
second one stands on a half-shell, both continuously
shifting between being and being seen. Even as a
child, I understood there were erotic fishhooks that
one couldn't see. I learned to use a camera to see what
I could be.
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