I pull the hair back from my face and peer into the mirror.
I gawk at the wrinkles and the pores and the non-existent dimples which only some people can see.
They look alright. No immediate panic required.
Probably can put off the facial for another day.
Then I look into my own eyes.
And a century stares back.
My eyes look tired. And that is strange, for I thought I was in love.
You know how it is. You meet someone new, get the skin glowing (could be due to other reasons), have a sparkle in your eyes, spring in the steps, bloody violins play and all.
Yes, check to all of that, except the sparkle.
And I look for a reason. Maybe it is the object of affection, if he is unable to put the sparkle in my eyes, this needs serious second thoughts.
But, no. He is more than I could ever wish for. Or get.
It is me then.
This old woman staring at me out of my own mirror is a product of me.
And I frantically look for other reasons.
Maybe it is the cares of looking after two cats, and being ignored by both.
Maybe it is the up and coming career.
Maybe it is being the eldest child, oh who am I kidding.
It is that small voice inside me which with a careworn frown says, this is not love.
Like the last time was not. Like the last to last time was not. Like it never was.
I do not dare admonish it, because the worst thing about history is that it gets thrown into your face.
So I keep staring at a mirror and arguing with my inner voice and refuse to fall in love.
How much more clichéd could I be?
I even buy shoes. *kills self*