His face stared back at me from the mirror, as lifelike as he had been when I’d saw him last. Strands of blond hair stood up untidily in the back and a smear of strawberry jam graced the side of his cheek. My mouth compressed, holding inside the constrained emotions. He was foolish; terribly reckless. Why did the mirror choose to hold this image over others of the more mundane things? Was it the vitality, the glow in his eyes, the impish grin on his face, the tilt of his head? Or damnably messy smear of jam on his face?
 Attingere · Sun Mar 11, 2007 @ 10:54pm · 0 Comments |
