Free Appointment with a Smile by Kieran York

might have taken it too far, or incorrectly. Although I was certain it wasn’t rational, I could see the parallel between creating and loving.
    Risk was involved in allowing the passion needed for each of these wonders. And it took the exact requirement. The contrast—chiaroscuro—could be in varying intensities. Words, caresses, brushstrokes, they all needed to be forged with such care and precision. I had only learned this with years of experience.
    After applying additional paint, making corrections, and carefully examining the painting, I showed my approval by giving it a thumbs-up gesture. I signed it, feeling great satisfaction and fulfillment.
    Glancing at the brushes, springy pallet knives, and splattered palette paper pad, I considered the cleanup. As I’d done what seemed to be a million times before, I took the implements of my trade to the sink, carefully cleaned them, and wiped them down completely. I pressed them back into the storage case. I glanced at the painting. Yes, I thought, it was what I wanted. I crushed the messy paper I’d torn from the palette pad and tossed it away.
    As I shed my clothing and stepped into the shower, I turned to look in the mirror. I’d been blessed with health and much happiness in my life. But age was a great leveler of self-expectation. We all wanted age to evolve us gently and with human grace. Yet there was always an awkwardness about age. Nature automatically deconstructed us. In various increments, we lost what we had been.
    My limbs were good, and I’d not allowed many rolls or cellulose. I exercised and attempted to maintain a dietary plan that met with my doctor’s recommendations. My face was lined, and I had no desire to “touch” it up. Just as in my paintings, I had enjoyed creating those facial road maps.
    The image of me at sixty had become a woman with an ever-so-slight girth around my thin frame, graying hair, and lines upon my thin face. My face was more haggard than it once was. The coloring not as pink with youth’s luminosity. It could be worse, I thought with a pause before turning the shower’s handle. The water hit my body in sheets and splashed downward. My body sagged very little, everything remained in working order. And I still smiled freely. So yes, it could have been far worse.
    After suds and water had thoroughly doused my body, I patted myself dry. I had laid out my cloth armor on the bed. I layered a vibrant crimson turtleneck over lace lingerie and slipped into a pair of tawny-colored slacks. I wished my creativity included fashion design. I wrestled my arms into a matching lightweight jacket. Finally, I stepped into shoes. I’d never taken the time to coordinate fashion colors as I did with oils and acrylics. Esther would say more was the pity on that one.
    I put on a multicolored, multi-stone gold necklace. Somewhat splashy, with spots of crimson, purple, and many shades in between, the main stones were agate. My dangling earrings matched the necklace. As an afterthought, I slipped on an oval ring.
    I hadn’t come to London to date, nor to involve myself in a fashion show. Regardless, if I had, I wouldn’t have been a frou-frou woman. This was an outfit for galleries, going to dinner, and not impressing anyone with anything other than pointing to my artwork.
    Looking out the window, I thought about all the chic and trendy people walking below. Londoners had a certain tailored sense of fashion. I probably wouldn’t be mistaken for a Brit, although that would have been nice.
    I wondered about the interior dressings of my timeworn body—my soul enshrined inside. Youth often provides exuberance, passion, and exploration. Age can provide wisdom, experience, and knowledge. But any one of those attributes might be traded off. Well-seasoned souls needn’t be ancient. Conversely, well-aged bodies could be energetic, inquisitive, and fervent.
    Age proved such a quandary. And no cross-references seemed available as one moved across its