Her Face, the Grand Central Ceiling
by
Catherine Chiarella Domonko
Fewer and fewer admire her beauty. Not the way they used to. When the commuters are gone, she looks down at the once-happening terminal and thinks, this can’t be the end. When they return, they’ll notice me, love me again. Maybe tomorrow, maybe after a weekend away. Distance creates desire.
She listens for compliments from the whispering gallery. Searches for bouquets once strewn across the pink Tennessee marble. Nothing. She’s ceased to exist for them. But she’s the renowned, glorious ceiling. Has her celestial radiance finally dimmed?
She consults the orb of the information booth clock, but gets no reading, only more indifference. Its hands, busy with an accuracy within one second every 20 billion years, have more important work to do. Commuters still arrange to meet under that arrogant clock. She’s never part of their plans.
Her future, empty and dreamlike, becomes her nightmare.
After arriving in the city a decade or two ago, her beauty, fresh and unrivaled, was written about. However, the car exhaust and train soot, as well as the cigarette smoke, have taken their toll. She consults several restoration experts.
One advises her to “Leave it alone. Flaws are part of the fascination. Think of the Venus de Milo.”
Another tells her a water leak caused mold to bloom across her turquoise presence, once a stunner, now obscured, and that they must act swiftly to reverse the signs of aging. A regimen should have been put in place years ago, but there’s no use in looking back. Fortunately, science has come a long way. They’ll see what they can do.
When the scaffolding comes down, she’s again a map of gold leaf constellations and untold stars. But the LED lights only mimic her original intensity, which to her feels inauthentic. The constellations have been reworked so that east is west and west is east.
“A modern restoration technique,” one specialist tells her. “Makes it easier for your fans to see you.”
She’s not so sure.
Another expert on the team left a small, round patch in a corner, “Let’s call it a beauty mark,” he says. “Think Marilyn Monroe. Cindy Crawford.”
She views their skills from several angles, tries to trust their collective wisdom, but in her mind, all she sees is a humiliating before and after. “After,” she thinks. Old. For her, unfulfilling. This transformation doesn’t reassure her like she’d hoped, by reinvigorating her youthful beauty.
Commuters look up occasionally, having read about her rejuvenation in The New York Times. Mainly, they contemplate her appearance while they nurse their Starbucks and wait for their trains to be called. She catches snippets of unflattering conversation.
“Can you believe how old she is?”
Or, “Tragic, spending all that money. What a waste.”
It’s then she wants to shout, “I’m the one you fancied not so long ago.”
But that would be undignified. And if she’s anything, it’s dignified.
She listens for compliments from the whispering gallery. Searches for bouquets once strewn across the pink Tennessee marble. Nothing. She’s ceased to exist for them. But she’s the renowned, glorious ceiling. Has her celestial radiance finally dimmed?
She consults the orb of the information booth clock, but gets no reading, only more indifference. Its hands, busy with an accuracy within one second every 20 billion years, have more important work to do. Commuters still arrange to meet under that arrogant clock. She’s never part of their plans.
Her future, empty and dreamlike, becomes her nightmare.
After arriving in the city a decade or two ago, her beauty, fresh and unrivaled, was written about. However, the car exhaust and train soot, as well as the cigarette smoke, have taken their toll. She consults several restoration experts.
One advises her to “Leave it alone. Flaws are part of the fascination. Think of the Venus de Milo.”
Another tells her a water leak caused mold to bloom across her turquoise presence, once a stunner, now obscured, and that they must act swiftly to reverse the signs of aging. A regimen should have been put in place years ago, but there’s no use in looking back. Fortunately, science has come a long way. They’ll see what they can do.
When the scaffolding comes down, she’s again a map of gold leaf constellations and untold stars. But the LED lights only mimic her original intensity, which to her feels inauthentic. The constellations have been reworked so that east is west and west is east.
“A modern restoration technique,” one specialist tells her. “Makes it easier for your fans to see you.”
She’s not so sure.
Another expert on the team left a small, round patch in a corner, “Let’s call it a beauty mark,” he says. “Think Marilyn Monroe. Cindy Crawford.”
She views their skills from several angles, tries to trust their collective wisdom, but in her mind, all she sees is a humiliating before and after. “After,” she thinks. Old. For her, unfulfilling. This transformation doesn’t reassure her like she’d hoped, by reinvigorating her youthful beauty.
Commuters look up occasionally, having read about her rejuvenation in The New York Times. Mainly, they contemplate her appearance while they nurse their Starbucks and wait for their trains to be called. She catches snippets of unflattering conversation.
“Can you believe how old she is?”
Or, “Tragic, spending all that money. What a waste.”
It’s then she wants to shout, “I’m the one you fancied not so long ago.”
But that would be undignified. And if she’s anything, it’s dignified.