Black Addition

Stepping in front of the vanity mirror, the thick condensation was wiped away with a swift, aggressive stroke of my forearm. From the damp towel on my head, my crowning glory was unfurled: my beautiful blonde wavy hair. Even wet, the golden tresses caught the bathroom light, falling past my shoulders in rich, undulating patterns that usually took an hour to style. The damp mane was quickly twisted into a loose, temporary topknot on my head, secured with a claw clip, leaving a few wet tendrils framing my flushed face. A heavy glass bottle of shimmering Moroccan argon oil was reached for. This was a step that refused to be skipped, no matter how loud the clock ticked. A puddle of the golden liquid was poured into my palms and rubbed together to warm, the rich, nutty scent of vanilla and amber instantly filling the humid air. I bent forward, my glistening hands smoothed over my calves, working their way up my thighs. The oil was massaged into my skin with long, deliberate strokes, my muscles watched as they toned and flexed under my touch. The oil lent my skin a flawless, sun-kissed sheen, catching the vanity light perfectly. "I love my legs," I murmured aloud to the empty room, my voice a mixture of defiance and genuine affection. "They make me proud." They were long, strong, and perfectly sculpted from years of dedicated Pilates and running. They carried me through sixty-hour weeks and corporate battles, and today, they were needed to carry me to victory. Sprinting back into the bedroom, the closet doors were opened with a force that rattled the hangers. A structured, high-waisted charcoal pencil skirt was snatched from a hanger, alongside a delicate, ivory silk blouse from the dry-cleaning pile. To my horror, the silk blouse looked like a crumpled map, creased from being crammed tightly against winter coats. "Not today, you don't," I muttered. The creaking ironing board was dragged from its hiding place behind the door. The iron was plugged in, and the dial cranked all the way up to "Silk/High Heat"—a setting any textile expert would call a gamble, but desperation dictated my strategy. While the iron hissed and sputtered, growing dangerously hot, my undergarments were stepped into, and the tailored pencil skirt was pulled up over my thighs. The silk blouse was laid flat on the padded board. My hands shook as the hot metal plate was pressed onto the fabric. A cloud of scented steam billowed up, enveloping my face. The iron was swept up and down the sleeves in furious, jagged strokes, my eyes darting to the wall clock every three seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. 8:54 AM. The iron swept across the collar, smoothing away the wrinkles just enough to project corporate competence. The plug was pulled from the wall with a sharp yank, leaving the appliance to hiss aggressively on its metal stand. With the skirt zipped, I turned to the full-length gilded mirror in the corner of my room to inspect the foundations of my outfit. The high-waisted skirt hugged my contours tightly, smoothing over my stomach and narrowing at my waist before tapering down toward my knees, drawing a sharp contrast against my newly oiled legs. I turned sideways, then faced forward again, my hands placed on my waist. The fabric was taut, accentuating the natural curves beneath. "My hips are wide a little," I said softly, studying my reflection with a critical eye. A moment of heavy silence hung in the room as the pronounced hourglass silhouette was looked at. Then, the utter absurdity of critiquing my bone structure while the seconds slipped away struck me. A bright, bubbling laugh broke from my lips. My head was shaken at my own vanity, the mounting anxiety breaking for a brief, beautifully human moment. "Wide enough to run this meeting," I told my reflection with a grin.