Red (The Background Color of Dream #1 of Ivana's Strange Series)

There she is, a Feliniesque femme removing makeup on some phantom Isle of Women. Her beautiful white Chanel shoes are worn down, the soles that is, the area not readily visible to the common eye unless she kicks a leg in the air. And as she waits like he had begged her to, she does this; she kicks one leg in the air and breaks into a strange hybrid of a dance, something between a flamenco and an Irish jig. If Milly were an animal, she’d be a bull. Most definitely. Yes, a male cow. A quasi-satisfied bovine.

This quirky and oh-so-curvy lady, Milly, is considered a femme fatale by many of her admirers. Men and women who are fortunate enough to be well-acquainted with her exterior personae alone. The superficial. Masks she slaps onto her face, delicately, before a breathtaking entrance onto the wobbly, under-financed stage in a lauded theatre of much velvet, gold, and talent. She is in control during these moments, a queen showing off to her humble servants. She is the composer of her own sonata, the director of her own tragedy, and the teller of her own farce. Disembodied. Only the song, the cries, and the applause allow her to feel from a distance, a safe distance. And the men fall apart, like the fingers of roofs. Like they do with many women, when she IS the FANTASY, something that may be referred to in this story, albeit loosely, as I.F. Safety dwells there, in the wooden masks and transparent screens, or when the audience is guided to the middle of a forest at twilight for a hedonistic ritual performance by some of the more daring and avant-garde artists of the company; pagan-influenced shows during which the actors are puppets and strings conduct their undernourished bodies along lovers’ paths.

Fleeing is another option; nothing wrong with the random escape to Boise, Idaho or Toledo, Spain. A woman must always carry a getaway plan in her little pocket, her chic wallet, her hand (along with a photo ID and/or passport). Outlined routes, detailed cross-Atlantic maps; and if only Pangea still existed (ah, the possibilities then)!

Still. Something unusual unfolds tonight. Milly greases off her caked-on white face and peels off her blue eyelashes (the length of a baby’s arm). In an hour, she will reveal herself to a suitor who has pursued the femme for a solid, stoic year.