The Midnight Bow

Even the master of fright needs sharp stage presence. Slipping back inside from the streets, I clambered up the carved drawer handles of the tall bedroom dresser and stepped onto the runner before the vanity mirror. Resting in a shallow ceramic dish was a clean, wooden-handled cosmetic brush with ultra-soft bristles. Hoisting the brush between both paws, I carefully swept away specks of sidewalk dust and old shop grit clinging to the brim of my black top hat. Once the dark felt looked pristine, I straightened my bow tie, squared my plush feet, and executed a deep, sweeping aristocratic bow directly to my reflection. Tomorrow's dread will look magnificent.