Ageless

It began innocently enough. A stir of the spoon. The first plop of the etching liquid. Soon there was a smattering of blobs on the table as she stirred more vigorously, the scraping edge of the blade whooshing closer and closer to the rim. Whoosh, click. Whoosh, click. An errant dab landing on first her finger, then hand. A slight upturn of her smile. Mischief creeping into her eyes. It was precious, this gold, but irresistible, the urge. Her fingers slowly submerging. One knuckle, two, three. Hand sliding to the depths of the bowl. The cool ooze turning her hands eternal, age invisible. No hesitation as she shed her garments, lifting her hands to her face. Droplets of golden rain falling on her shoulders, her neck, her breasts. Lifting the bowl of gold, she poured. Velvet raining from the heavens, coating her wrinkled skin, her sagging spirits. She closed her eyes, an anguished sigh escaping. This. This was good.

When they found her, she was sitting on a stool by the window. Eyes closed. Face lifted to the sun. Her hands caressing her neck and arms, spreading the golden liquid into the crevices of her aging skin. Sighing only when they lifted her, towels covering her hastily. Their disbelief at her foolish behavior. Her wastefulness of their precious time.

Allowing them to whisk her away. To return her to a sensible state. One in which an old woman should be.

As the golden sun went down, she had no regrets. For one blissful bit, she was ageless, a golden goddess. No old, wrinkled woman had she been.
She. Had. No. Regrets.