In response to the WordPress daily post prompt: Look in the mirror. Does the person you see match the person you feel like on the inside? How much stock do you put in appearances?
She stood in the bathroom back at your house, at your party, next to your shower curtain, smelling your aftershave, and grabbed the places she thought you might grab. Would you go for the ridge of her hips or would it be higher? Would you, for example, spread your fingers between her ribs? Now it was Prince spinning through the walls and dimming the accreted cocktail effect. She couldn’t do Prince, yet she found herself singing, content with a low harmony. Would you go straight for her collarbone?
A knock on the door jerked her back into seeing herself the way girls see themselves. It was a friendly, made more out of proximity than compatibility, who stood on the other side. She was unsure if this made what she’d been up to in there more or less embarrassing. The friendly told her, after she’d admitted to rehearsing her responses to your hypothetical touch (a silly thing to do, she realized only after saying it aloud. Yes, this was more embarrassing, stomach-dropping embarrassing.), You can’t judge your bedroom-self based on your bathroom-mirror-self, you know, the friendly said. Nothing looks the same. Especially in missionary—everything squishes down like a pancake.
She appreciated the honesty, and thought briefly that maybe she’d underestimated their compatibility, but did not like this flattening idea. The worst thing would be to look two-dimensional. She tried to forget about the bathroom and went to see if you had another full drink waiting in that hand of yours, wading through Prince the whole way.