The Mirror

I think she sees herself in me, like she thinks we are the same person. Soul mates of sorts, I often imagine, for when she smiles I do too. And when she sticks out her tongue, I return the gesture. And when she cries, I reflect the same pain back at her, as she wipes her eyes and watches in fascination.

Perhaps we really are one another, I don’t know. But I always have her back, pointing out her red wine lips or the random splodge of toothpaste she’s somehow got on her cheek. And I watch her mad banshee-like dancing enthralled, matching her every move and laughing with her as thrashes about uninhibitedly and occasionally breaks into song.

I admit, I am disloyal. I have a wandering eye and will flirt with anyone who looks my way. That’s not to say my love isn’t true; nor my heart unfaithful. She’s my number one – who I’m always waiting patiently to see. And besides, we have an agreement of sorts, for I know she also gets her head turned during the day. I can tell from the fact she often comes home with perfectly applied new make-up. I don’t mind though, whether it be in the office, a restaurant or bar – she’s a babe, and she deserves to know it.

HER: Eurgh, I look so tired today.