I wrote this for class a few months ago, definitely one of my favorite things I've written so far. It is pretty much a two prong flash fiction, told from the viewpoint of a woman and her husband. I was trying to convey a general misunderstanding in relationships, which I believe I did well but I also wrote it so. CnC please bbies. <3 Spoiler: Woman Her persona is a doll. It is the mask that existed past the wood of her bones, over the plasticity of the rows of veins interlocked to her person. Whereas the mask of her self is wholly customizable, and even the mask of her shadow twists and lurches with each step forward, the doll's mask does not budge. It remains frozen upon her face; it becomes her and is her. It is her in the now, a child standing before the mirror over the sink, staring at the toothpaste dribble from her lips. It will be her then, elderly woman, staring into the abyss of the cove. It is here she will then search the waters for her face, reaching through the surface to claim what awaited beyond the mask, beyond the plasticity for something more. But the water will not be a window. Then it will only be another mirror, another reflection of the mask staring back at her. Spoiler: Husband She is by the cove again. I try not to think about it as I continue my stroll around the riverside. We have been married for about thirty years. I always considered her to be the most radiant being on this world. Even in childhood, I remember likening to a goddess misplaced, someone who belongs in some place better than here, than this. I think she knows it, too. Ever since youth, I always find her staring off into some water body or glass -- anything, really, that reflected her graceful image. Sometimes, I think she's obsessed with it. Who can blame her, I guess? Object of affection, harbinger of love wishes; she is a doll. She is my doll. Her eyes on me send ripples through my body, casting me back to that boyish dream of a perfect wife, a spitting image of perfection. I guess that is why she reaches into the cove. She tries to find perfection when it simply looks back upon her. Why look for a window when the reflection is enough?
