Mirror
There's a pane of glass. I pass by it every day but I didn't notice until recently. There's a crack, thin, discreet, passable as a glint of light trapped by the reflecting glass, but there. A crack. I let it slip from my gaze the first few days but eventually I found myself drawn to the imperfection, tempted to examine this flaw in my pane. I raise a tentative hand and slide the forefinger dangerously close to the deceivingly smooth crack. Up, down, up. I could shift the course just slightly and feel the jagged edges force the skin of my finger apart, watch how perfect a drop of blood would glide down the glass. I could press the side of my hand to the pane and drag it down in a mercilessly swift motion and stare at the rill of crimson and the specks glittering where the skin tore along the protruding shards. I could drag both hands, all ten fingers, stare through the pane through ragged curtains of blood, stare right past my drowning hands, ignore red warmth stealing down my forearms to drip at my elbows.
I could.
But I don't. You're tired of that game, the one where I try to win by losing which means you lose too. I look up and smile because you're in the glass now and you smile back at my image's eyes. It seems the crack is not a flaw though your smile is made crooked by its strange diffracting edges. This crack is a sign of endurance over time. Because I can gaze into the pane, past the crack. And we are both reflected there. I'll find something to fill in the crack.
Dedicated to Sean Gwaltney