Mirror, Mirror by Aimee Hunt

Mirror, Mirror

by Aimee Hunt

"I wish I were kinder to myself,” she said, looking at the ceiling. The bathroom fan all but drowned out her soft voice.

“And why can’t you be?” He replied. He turned toward her, the sheets shifting beneath him. He rested his head on his hand, the other reached out to her cheek touching it gently. “I don’t know.” She sat up, looking in the mirror opposite the bed. Her hair was a dull blonde, a mousey color. The eyes appeared to sit uneven on her pale face, hazel irises peering out from stresssunken eyelids. She didn’t think herself ugly, but hardly ever beautiful. Sometimes, on a good morning, when she’d slept well and put on mascara she felt pretty.

She’d always been called “pretty.” But. . . he called her “beautiful girl.” She loved the way he said it, but she hardly believed it. How desperately she wanted to! . . . but fell prey to her own judgement of the face which stared back at her in the mirror.

Her nails were chewed, thighs too muscular, stomach too pudgy, too stout, too round a face, too big a head, too sharp a nose, too, too, too. Too much.

He saw in the way her eyes were reading her body that she was doing it again. “Stop it. You’re perfect.” She let out a soft huff of air in protest.

He turned her around so she faced him, and spoke. “I love the way your hair is a little mess of waves, how in the sun it turns soft strawberry. You have the loveliest skin. It’s so soft. And those eyes. Like a forest floor, the green and brown marry in your eyes, and in the sun? They turn to honey. Beautiful girl. . .”

Her face fell before he could continue. He lifted it, their eyes meeting.

“The mirror is not the only one who sees you,” he said.

“I know.” She played with his dark curls, a half-hearted smile on her face. “I just wish it was kinder to me.”