Once, through the grimy panes of an upstairs window, the younger brother, from his ladder, saw the woman crouched over adressingtable, her head on her arms as if she slept, or wept.
It got me thinking: Why not assemble a stripped-down, tomboy vanity by pairing this mirror with a low-key desk or dressing table a solution that wouldn't flood our bedroom with estrogen?
One day, not long after she had endured yet another session under the surgeon's knife, he took a mirror from her dressingtable and thrust it in front of her face to reflect the livid scars and the bruising under her eyes.