Madonna Clothed in the Sun
“I hate you. I need you to know that I hate you.” She repeated, passing the brush through the hair of her rival. “I didn’t want you to come back. I kept telling him that there was no point looking for you, you know? I thought you were gone forever.” She’d been telling this exact story for four months now. Isabel didn’t know what she expected. Eva died in 1952. It was 1972 now, and 20 years living as a corpse has a tendency to limit one’s ability to respond to questioning, no matter how many demands you make. Eva just stood there, propped up in the living room, erected in her own space between the flowers and the lamp. Kissing her on the cheek, Isabel rose and examined her craftsmanship. Neither Isabel nor Eva had seen Argentina since 1955. Everyday Isabel would comb through what remained of the hair, ‘so it wouldn’t tangle’ as her husband would say. It would be more accurate to describe him as ‘their’ husband, she supposed. ‘So it won’t tangle.’ She heard the way he talked t...