Free The Makeover by Karen Buscemi

would be satisfying without saying too much. The mail carrier would be downstairs in minutes. The pressure made it all the more harder to focus. Finally, she started to write in her elegant, slanted script:
     
     
    Mother,
     
    Been terribly busy. As you can imagine, many offers have been presented to me, and trying to choose the one that is best for both Henry and me has been a challenge, to say the least. Sorry we’ll be absent for Christmas. We hope by this time next year we are fully settled in our new roles and can enjoy the holidays in a leisurely manner. Give my love to Dad.
     
    Yours,
    Camellia
     
     
    Scribbling the address on the envelope and licking it closed, Camellia threw on a long coat from the front closet, buttoning it to the top so her pajamas wouldn’t show, and ran out the door to the elevator. By the time she made it to the ground floor, the mail carrier had already arrived and was chatting pleasantly with the concierge, whom Camellia had learned – after so many interactions sneaking in and out of the building – was named Mihail.
    She scurried across the lobby, practically breathless by the time she reached the men. “I have mail,” she announced, waving the envelope.
    “I can take that,” the mail carrier said, his thick mustache wiggling as he spoke.
    “Thank you so much,” Camellia replied softly, realizing this was the first conversation she had had with anyone outside her husband since Thanksgiving.
    “Is there, um, anything else you need, Mrs. Rhodes?” Mihail said, looking at Camellia strangely.
    Camellia followed his eyes down to her feet, which were bare. She blushed crimson. “Oh, no, no, I’m fine, Mihail, thank you. Just, uh, had an important letter to get out. Very important. All set now. Thanks again, gentlemen. Have a lovely afternoon.”
    She walked as quickly as she could back to the elevator, restraining the urge to break into a full run. Luckily the doors were still open and she clamored inside, holding her breath until the doors closed.
    Once she was safely back in the apartment – she was shocked she hadn’t managed to lock herself out in her rush – she threw the coat onto the tufted chair and went into her bedroom, pulling the covers off the bed and dragging them into the living room. She was tired of hiding out in her room. Now that Alain and Yara were gone, she could be a mess right out in the open.
    After she threw the sheet and comforter over the sofa, she grabbed the remote and tossed that on top of the pile. Then she went into the kitchen, opening cabinets and scanning the shelves. Finding a silver tray, she placed on it an open bottle of Cabernet, a box of Carr’s crackers, a thick chunk of Gruyére cheese, a container of chocolate ice cream, and a large spoon. She carried the teetering tray out to the living room, placing it on the square coffee table, then dragged the table so it was right beside the sofa. With everything in place, Camellia slipped under the covers, grabbed the remote, and powered on the flat-panel television. She reached for the bottle of wine and drank from it directly. It was dry and full, just how she liked it. Flipping mindlessly through the channels, she landed on MTV and smirked, barely recognizing the channel that in her youth had been fashion inspiration. Now it was filled with teenage dribble dressed in wife beaters and tattoos. She took another swig from the bottle and flipped the channel. Swig and flip. Swig and flip. Still on the tray, the ice cream sweated and melted and leaked.
    When Henry arrived home two days later, Camellia was still on the couch. The covers haphazard over her body were covered in crumbs and food wrappers. And the silver tray now looked like a Jenga game, with containers and plastic wear stacked in a teetering heap. Henry’s bright smile turned to an expression of concern. “Camellia, are you sick?”
    Camellia pulled herself to a seated position and looked quizzically at her husband. “Uh, no,