he funny thing about Emily was she never stopped trying. In her own ineffective, possibly delusional ways she was always on the market, you know, waiting to be discovered by the ever-elusive Prince Charming, who’d swoop her off her feet and they’d ride together in the sunset. Sounds so romantic, though my aunt Emily was a very down-to-earth sort of person. She did not dream of Prince Charming, rather she believed she was entitled to be discovered by him, she was owed a fairy-tale ending.
I still remember the fun times we had together, just the two of us, on her green velvet sofa, huddled together over a fashion magazine, greedily taking in the mini skirts and the low-cut tops, the elegant silk dress, perfect for a night out, and the lingerie, oh, how that made us blush and giggle. We’d stare at the beautiful model in the picture, wearing nothing but high-heels and black panties, her nipples tastefully obscured by luscious curls, wondering - me, when would I even be allowed to own lace panties and her, how does it feel to be almost naked in front of a guy? Then she’d say something funny and we’d laugh our heads off. I’d look at her in envy, she was a grown-up, she could buy all the lace and the high-heels in the world.
Yet, she never did. Even an innocent 12 years old like me could see she didn’t have it in her. When my parents went out, they never bothered with a baby-sitter, for aunt Emily was always willing to have me overnight, so I’d seen her sensible cotton pajamas and I knew the contents of her drawers and the most exciting thing in them was a blue bra decorated with little white butterflies, which looked gorgeous to me, but not exactly hot date kind of thing.
Besides her delicious hot-cocoa with butter scones, what I loved most about our sleepovers were the evening rituals. I’d seen Mom plenty of times putting thick layers of white moisturizer on her face and neck, but there was nothing magic about it, just something she did in between preparing the lunch boxes for the next day and changing the sand in the cat’s litter box.

unt Emily loved to make a show of it - she’d wrap a towel around her hair and, sitting herself in front of the mirror, she’d start examining her face for signs her mortal enemy, time, was gaining grounds. I’d learned to shake my head indignantly every time she suggested there was a tiny line coming out of the corner of her eye.
She had a rigorous routine, starting with vigorously cleaning her skin, furiously scrubbing at each and every pore - ‘clogged pores are the absolute worst’ she’d turn around to tell me and I’d cast my eyes down, as it was obvious she was referring to the spots on my face. Then she’d put on a face mask, maybe rejuvenating clay from the Dead Sea or maybe the blue clay, full of essential minerals, she’d buy at the health store, where, needles to say, she was a regular customer. She’d slap a blue mask on my face, too and then we’d spend the next half an hour watching TV while the clay dried off and we could barely move our lips anymore.
The clay didn’t help much with my spots and, apparently, didn’t help aunt Emily either. For a woman pushing forty, her skin was great, so that was definitely not what kept men away.
When I moved to high-school, aunt Emily was my confidante. I’d tell her everything about all the cute Bills and Toms, and Mark, especially Mark, my biggest crush at the time. I’d tell her about a certain look, or that smile while we passed each other in the hall, the exact tone of his hello and I listened to her eagerly. She was the adult, she had to know about such things. And when it finally happened, not with Mark, some other fling, called Jamie, it was to aunt Emily that I poured my heart out. All the excitement, the happiness, the doubts, I laid it all out one afternoon on that green sofa. That was the last time I ever spoke with Emily - she was so shocked and horrified about my behavior, she even called me a ‘stupid little slut, like all the others’. Those were her exact words and I was dumbstruck. All these years we’d talked about guys and seductive outfits and when I finally had a boyfriend she froze me out completely. I had betrayed her trust and she wanted nothing more to do with me.

lost track of her when I left for college. Mom would mention her from time to time, on our weekly phone calls - ‘aunt Emily has taken up yoga, the poor thing’ or ‘Emily is going to a mindfulness retreat’, odd things like that. Mom could treat me like an adult now and she no longer felt the need to hide her exasperation with her sister’s inability to make a decent human connection with a guy, no matter who, just anyone so as to spare all of us the heartache of seeing her always alone.
The doctors said it was a heart attack, but Mom was convinced her heart just shrank and grew dry and that was what killed her.
‘That woman never understood how to love anyone. Well, not us, she loved us, but, you know, a man, someone to open up her soul to’.
Emily’s death broke my Mom’s heart so I knew I had to fly in for the funeral. I hadn’t seen Emily in more than ten years, but as she lay there in the casket, she looked her old youthful self, her skin still flawless. A bit too white, maybe, they must have exaggerated with the powder, but, still, a great job. She went to her grave still wearing her mask and if she seemed cold, everybody put it on her being, you know, dead. The last men to go anywhere near aunt Emily were two assistants from the funeral home who lowered the lid without even looking at her pretty face.

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge, today's prompt was: face mask! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

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Images: 1, 2.