This morning I caught a glance of my naked reflection prancing by the hallway mirror.
The shimmering eyes in the reflection glanced back.
Yes, I said patiently, yes, I see you. I haven't forgotten about you. I know that you are there.
You are young, I said flatly, lacing up my shoes. My eyes squinted into half-moons, and for a second the inside of me appeared in the mirror, old, grey, gentle and tired.
My palm touched the palm of the reflection. I wish I could send you off without me, I sighed and screwed my mouth into a scold: If I were young and had your figure.
The slender reflection laughed and tugged at its camisole. Frowning carefully, I matched the laces of my boots to the eyelets.
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