Behind the Looking Glass

One day, I looked into a mirror and saw her; I didn't
recognize her as me. She had a quiet smile that brought
light to her dark eyes and softened her cheeks with a set
of matching dimples. Her hair was pulled back and black;
tangled in messy curls, wiggly strands of hair escaped
from their sisters and hung by her ears. The ears? They
were small, cute, with elf-like points.

She blushed. It was the first colour to reach her fragile
glass-like skin. I watched with growing fascination as she
nervously toyed with her clothing, feelign my eyes on her.
Her hand tugged at a baby-blue tank top, teasing the hem
into a knot around a skinny finger with pink nails.

Entranced now, I watched her shudder. Her head jerked and
hid her eyes with a downward stare. Dark tangles of hair
spilled down from the loose-bun in the back and happily
teased across her cheeks, silhouetting yet another serene
smile.

What was going on behind those glimmering brown eyes?

I felt like a voyeur; the mirror, a window open to view of
an innocent soul. I had to break away, lest I contaminate
this virgin territory with my worldly thoughts.

Sins of the flesh....I knew them well.

I wanted to know her well. It was an irresistible urge. To
taste once again, the naiveté of youth, and once more feel
as if anything were possible and the only constraint to my
development was a typical teenage lack of confidence.

Oh....

She looked up, her eyes wide as if staring back at me. Her
smile played glancing blows with my heart. My eyes swam,
and broke my gaze away from hers.

Looking below her neck, her slender figure filled my
horizon. Boyishly small breasts swelled as large as twin
moons.

I had to pull away.

I couldn't pull away.

I couldn't wait...

I had to stop.

It was wrong.

My hand reached out, trembling fingers extended. Her
motions copied mine in sarcastic mimicry.

I couldn’t' touch her. I shouldn’t' touch her.

I did.

Our fingers met. Flattening for an instant against the
crystal clear barrier of our perceptions, then breaking
past. I touched her, her skin soft, the finger tip
unnaturally warm.

A crack spread. It scattered her image into a thousand
shards; slices of glass clattered to the floor in front of
me. She winked, blinked, then vanished into nothing.

Was she a dream?

No.

Looking down at my hand, a bit of blood welled out from
beneath a cracked pink nail.

Her blood. My proof.
She was there.
Purity lives behind the looking glass.