She glanced wistfully at her surroundings; the fixings of her home were stylish, yet they were not grand, clean, nor trim. Despite this, it was a pleasant place to relax in the quititude that The Woman deemed necessary to calm her frayed nerves like an anointed balm.
As the fidgety feeling crept in deeper still, The Woman became uneasy and paced in front of her bathroom window, staring out bleakly and without purpose into the early-morning summer sky. The beauty of the condensation upon her window rolled in like a summer mist, and she was oddly taken by the shroud of its mystery.
Suddenly, the woman was struck by the odd silence of the moment, only to have the encounter punctuated by the revving-thrumming engine of a dump truck outside: not a lively twitter, not a sonorous hum, not even a sympathetic human voice. Only a dump truck.
In a spur-of-the-moment decision, The Woman turned sharply and sat down lickety-split in the velveteen armchair located directly in front of her bathroom Vanity.
She stared at her reflection, expecting to see nothing but a familiar face, punctuated with her Venusian smile--akin to the passing of a small white cloud before the coming of a Spring shower-cyclone. She thought of her bright, lilting laugh that rang with merriment-- the one that once you've heard it, you won't soon forget it. And she couldn't help but think, "how long it has been since I have heard you sing, sweet laughter."
She gazed without thought for a second time into the polished exterior of the Vanity. To her surprise, however, the face staring back at her was not the same in nature, quality, amount, or form as she was accustomed. When her intellect effectively deduced the true nature of the situation, she was, without warning, taken aback by the face which she saw mirroring her own. Gone was The Woman of quiet-yet-striking features; the one with the sensible and tempted stare.
In her place sat a bookishly-shy, full-figured, curly-haired Likeness, comparable to a budding rose in the bramble of a thorn bush. The hushed intelligence within The Likeness's pristine brown eyes made the woman's heart teeter with bewilderment. It was then, at that moment, that The Likeness (as though she had a life of her own,) extended her hand towards her mirrored counterpart.
The color faded from The Woman's cheeks-- certainly her eyes must be playing tricks on her! Yet, with boldness that matched the bravura of her otherworldly effigy, she instinctively reached out to graze the fingertips of The Likeness, whose petite and benevolent hand possessed a Herculean energy to which she had long since been unaccustomed to.
The Woman's palm tightened about the the tips of The Likeness's genteel littlefinger. Struck by form's regal bearing, her poise, her half-coiffed hair, The Woman noticed a ornate (but refined) diamond ring upon the forefinger of The Likeness. Awestruck, The Woman watched as the faceted gemstone sparkled in the surface of the Vanity with each shard of changing light.
It was then that The Woman really observed her counterpart's features--The Likeness's equine face and aquiline nose meshed well with just a hint of the oriental slant and cheekbones to render her exotic, and The Woman couldn't help but be overwhelmed with recollection.
Without provocation, and for seemingly no reason, The Woman was then provided an exposition into The Likeness's mind. She saw October's vivid, golden leaves flitting across the pavement in the brisk autumn weather. Only a moment passed and then The Woman saw sky blue bunches of shy violets, drenched in the fresh scent of April rain.
The Woman understood this to mean what it was: bright optimism turned to silent panic, weighed down with lonely depression. Or was it the image of perfect harmony she saw, cradled between rich, crackling intellect and an affectionate, sympathetic heart?
"Who are you?" The Woman abruptly cried with fervent passion (most likely spawned by fear.)
The Likeness then shifted her weight, unbidden, and watched The Woman intently, benignly ignoring the question.
"What do you want from me?" The Woman then followed in a dramatic plea.
The Likeness only stared woefully back at the woman, cheerlessly comprehending.
The Woman, cantankerous towards her believe-ed mirage, drew her hand back to the solace of her lap.
Lowering her eyes, The Woman sat for many moments in a melancholy contemplation. She then looked up briefly, with no expression in particular, to see The Likeness gazing upon her with bafflement in her eyes. The Likeness uttered no words, but her eyes begged a single question, reiterated slowly, as if aiming to get through to a slow-witted, yet cherished interlocutor.
The Woman, however, could not hold her gaze for long. Instead she sat, ensconced in her ancient velveteen Vanity armchair, steamy libation fragrantly sweetening the air nearby. She could hear The Likeness's silent voice speaking to her intently. It took every bit of her quintessence to keep from escaping to the protection of her bedchamber (so as to avoid absorbing every unspoken word that came from the closed-mouth of arguably The Woman's greatest expert on herself.)
When The Likeness had finished her silent speech, The Woman (eyes still downcast) allowed a single tear to shed to the floor.
Then The Woman paused for another brief moment. With little hesitation (and to the wonderment of her effigy,) The Woman suddenly raised her eyes to the image of The Likeness in the Vanity mirror. This time, however, she was unclassifiable: she now stared at her counterpart through a pair of dead, black, enormous pools that passed for eyes. Her hands suddenly looked sinewy and contorted, and she was fidgeting- clasping and unclasping the hook of her simple silver necklace.
It was then that The Likeness nodded wearily, without reproach. Still shaking her head, she glided towards The Woman, and placed a single kiss upon her cheekbone, like a butterfly alighting.
Then, as fast as she had appeared, The Likeness was instantly gone.
The Woman looked up again at the mirror and contemplated her reflection. She had never looked more imposing as she sat upon the velveted chair, attired in a stiff sleeveless white chiffon dress, no hint of make-up on her imperious, commanding face.
The Woman suddenly ripped her simple silver necklace fast as greased lightening from her neck like it was macabre pendant. She promptly placed it upon the counter, and paying it no more attention, briskly rifled through her jewelery box on the Vanity. It was there that she located a stylish beetle-shaped brooch, complimented by a lavish pearl necklace that emphasized the contours of her delicate and weakly neck, which served the purpose of making her look less diseased than normal.
Her gaze was cold, almost inhuman, and as she prepared to stand, she looked into the Vanity and contemplated what she had seen, before reaching a sickly hand to her perpendicular, thinning, and deteriorating hair to rearrange one single curl that obscured her view.
