Intimate Stranger

“I think I’ve seen you before.” She whispers to the reflection in the mirror.  

She turns away to dry her hands, pushing the thought from her mind. But she can feel her watching.

She turns to face the mirror. Slowly, reluctantly.

Leaning in close, she studies the eyes of the woman who is looking back at her.

The blue eyes (didn’t they used to be brighter, softer?) flecked with gold at the edges hold her gaze steady.

Unwavering. Demanding.

She wants to turn away from what she sees there. She doesn’t though. She stares back.

She wants to ignore the anger that defiantly glares back at her. Challenging. Harsh.

Still she looks.

She doesn’t want to swim the in the cold emptiness that lurks beneath the rage that she sees. (when did that grow there?)

Still she looks.

She waits. Squinting, looking deeply for more that she knows (hopes) must be there.

She searches for the spark that must be there somewhere (weren’t there flames there once?).

She blinks. Did she something flash for a second (or was it just imagination)?

Her eyes are a brilliant blue now as tears silently fall on her hands resting (gripping) the sink.

The woman in the mirror is an intimate stranger to her.

She turns off the light and walks away.

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