Idealistic Identity

         I climbed the stepstool when I really should’ve asked for the librarian's help. The thick hardcover I was reaching for slipped from my fingertips and crashed to the floor. A young woman turned the corner and peered down the aisle to see what caused the commotion. Before I completed my descent off the stepstool, she retrieved the fallen book and offered me her hand, helping me back down. After I regained my balance, I turned and looked at her. I stared at her familiar face in incredulity.

         I reached out to touch her supple skin, to see if she was real or simply my reflection in a mirror I hadn’t realize was there.

         She caught my hand in her smooth palm and spoke softly, “Are you alright? May I lend you a hand to the check out desk?”

         The woman carried my library book, and we walked side by side. I mused at her long, dark, curly hair swaying as she crossed the room. I felt my own curls sway in cadence with hers. Her eyes flashed a smile at me, and I noted their strikingly similar color to mine. Her uncanny features silenced me, yet I longed to ask where she came from and who she was.

         My beautiful twin laid the book on the desk and said, “Here you are.” She rounded the desk and walked away, disappearing again behind a row of books.

         After I checked out the book, I met my party in the lobby as scheduled, and we rode the bus home.

         Alone in my room, I lifted the mirror from the nightstand to study my youthful reflection. A wrinkled, grey haired woman stared back at me. I gasped. Panicked, I groped the nightstand for the missing yellowed photograph and re-taped it over the looking glass.

WC: 301