“You want to be the one

Made over be your own

Before and after

And a supermarket

Beauty in a bottle queen

Who’ll one day grace a check-out counter

Magazine front cover

Though the fine print reads

The picture makes a promise

The flesh lets it be broken”

Tracy Chapman “Broken” from album “Let it Rain”

Johanna loosened her skirt, let it fall to her ankles and casually picked up the burgundy bundle. Folding it, she laid the skirt on her wrinkle-free flower comforter. Then, she unbuttoned her shirt (a soft sweater like material in a deep purple) folded it and laid it next to the skirt. It took so much courage for her to lift her eyes and look at herself in the tall hanging mirror. Her eyes began to water, but she laughed it off. Buttoning her nightgown, she sat timidly at her thrown. A thrown is the last word Johanna would use to describe her chestnut vanity - more like a nightmare. She hated looking at that face in the mirror, knowing she'd never get younger. Knowing she'd never be any more attractive to him...to the world. If she only had something nice to occupy her time, maybe the bags under her eyes wouldn't show so much. Maybe the wrinkles would fade away. Or if she had a child...maybe the wrinkles would shine a little more - become laugh marks.

Steve let the door to their bedroom swing open as he walked in so swiftly, that Riza - Johanna's little bunny, sped like a bullet under the bed.

"Oh, Steve! You scared Riza!" Johanna whined.

"Don't give me that crap!" Steve tossed his papers on the now wrinkled comforter and mumbled under his breath, "Damn rabbit! Can't that thing go sleep in the garage?!"

He slammed the door to their bathroom before awaiting her reply.

Johanna put her brush gently down on the vanity and crept calmly to the bed. She bent down and awaited Riza's familiar hop into her arms. He inched forward and sniffed her; Johanna's sweet voice filled his long, drawn-back ears and he pushed his nose under her comforting hand. She stroked the spot in between his eyes and tapped his brown-spotted nose. Riza hopped to his bed underneath her vanity and chewed on his toy pig.

The toilet flushed and Johanna quickly took her place in front of the vanity, brushing her hair absent-mindedly while awaiting Steve's callous voice.

The toilet flushed again.

"Damn toilet stopped up again! When are you going to fix this Johanna!" (Only when he liked her did he call her 'Jo').

"I'm sorry, honey. I promise I'll call the plumber tomorrow."

Steve burst open the door, "Hell no! I told you to call him two days ago! Forget it! Save me some money and fix it yourself!"

"But, I don't know how..."

He clenched his teeth and snapped his neck to one side, "Well, figure it out!"

Johanna bit her lip, close to tears.

"I'm going back to work." Steve rubbed his head.

"But you just got here, and it's already midnight."

"Do you work?!" He advanced towards her with slow treacherous steps, "Do you pay the bills?! Do you know how to be an assistant director?! Do you know how hard it is to get promoted when there's a million other hungry eyes awaiting THE POSITION?!" He reaches her and stops, "No, you don't. So stop questioning me! I'm going to work!"

Johanna persists, "But, can't you finish your work tomorrow?" She already knew it was a mistake before the last words came out.

Steve gritted his teeth, his arm drew backwards and his face turned red. "You know, you REALLY PISS ME OFF!" He turned his face, grabbed his strewn papers in a crumpled mass, and flew out the front door.

Johanna put her face in her hands and let out a few muffled sobs. She quickly regained composure and smoothed out the wrinkles in the comforter. Her eyes wandered downwards towards Riza, but he was already asleep. Tonight, she knew her husband wasn't going to work. He was going to HER house...the girlfriend's house. The attractive GIRLFRIEND who was only twenty-two. Johanna had seen the woman's picture...while going through her husband's home office a couple of weeks ago. The woman was fair complected, with brown wavy hair and a tattoo on her right shoulder. A tattoo of a rose - a rose that represented her beauty. What could a thirty-one year old housewife have against that?