It’s seven o’clock and Alfred settles onto the worn velvet stool before the mirror. So begins a ritual that goes back more than sixty years.
He swirls pale foundation across his cheekbones with the precision of an artist. Every night, he transforms himself as if it was opening night.
Alfred can recall the roar of every audience. The West End, when he played the tragic lover, the Hollywood gala, the Royal Albert Hall, legs trembling but heart soaring, applause rolling like thunder.
About this time an assistant stage manager would knock on the door: ‘Fifteen minutes Mr. Henderson,’ and Alfred’s dresser brought him his costume. Then, a short walk to the wings.
A quarter-full whisky bottle stands on a bedside table. Alfred takes a long gulp. His eyes begin to glaze. He finishes the bottle and drifts off. He cannot pinpoint when the roles began to dwindle. Directors grew younger, his face became ‘nostalgic’, rejections piled up and Alfred felt each as a personal rebuke.
Now, in the half-light of his bedroom in his care home he plays his greatest role: himself. He dabs rouge onto cheeks that have lost their flush, traces eyeliner over eyes tired of crying. With every brushstroke, he resurrects a moment when the world leaned in to watch him.
He wonders which hurt more: the ache of aging or the absence of applause. In the mirror’s reflection, he sees the ghost of a younger man. He reaches out, fingertips brushing glass, attempting to bridge decades.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 