The Performance

Margaret stood before her bathroom mirror at 11:47 PM, tweezers in one hand, magnifying glass in the other. The stray hair on her chin had appeared overnight, a testament to either stress or the slow betrayal of her body. She was forty-seven, newly divorced, and spending her Friday evening engaged in this private ritual of maintenance.

Her Golden Retriever, Buster, watched from the doorway, head cocked in that particular way dogs have when they're judging your life choices. He'd been her ex-husband's idea—a therapy animal for Margaret's anxiety. Now Richard was gone, living with someone twenty-five years old, and Buster was hers.

"You're not helping," she told him. He thumped his tail once, dismissively.

The phone buzzed. Elena.

Margaret hesitated. Elena had been her friend since college, through marriages and divorces and career changes. But Elena was also Richard's sister, and family dinners had become impossible. Last Christmas, Margaret had spent the evening crying in the guest bathroom while Richard's new girlfriend discussed her pilates regimen in the dining room.

"Hello?"

"I'm making creamed spinach," Elena said without preamble. "Remember how Mom made it? With too much nutmeg and that weird texture?"

Margaret did remember. She remembered Sunday dinners at Elena's parents' house, the way Richard would squeeze her hand under the table during grace. She remembered the spinach incident of 2019, when Richard had announced he was vegan for three weeks and Margaret had accidentally made bacon-wrapped dates for his work party.

"Why are you making creamed spinach at midnight?"

"Richard's bringing her over tomorrow. For Sunday dinner. Like nothing changed. Like I'm supposed to pretend we're all still family."

Margaret leaned against the bathroom counter. Her chin hair was forgotten.

"So you're poisoning her with spinach?"

"I was hoping you'd come. As a buffer. As... whatever we are now."

The invitation hung there. Margaret looked at Buster, who had curled up on the bathmat. She thought about performance—about the way she'd performed happiness in her marriage for years, the way she was performing competence at her job, the way she would perform indifference tomorrow if she said no.

"I'll be there," she said. "But I'm bringing wine. The expensive kind."

"Good." Elena paused. "Margaret?"

"Yeah?"

"The hair looks fine. You look fine."

Margaret laughed, surprised. Elena must have seen her through the bathroom mirror on their last video call. Or maybe sisters just know these things.

"Get some sleep, El."

She hung up and set down the tweezers. Buster raised his head, expectant.

"Fine," she said. "One treat. But then we're both going to bed. We have a performance tomorrow."

The dog stood, shook himself, and followed her out of the bathroom, trailing hair like gold thread behind him.