Straight into the mirror, eye to eye, unflinching. She looked into the black cores of her pupils. Relaxing slightly her view widened as did her pupils and took in the amber of the iris and the whiteness of her sclerata.
Her focus expanded, flickered over her curled eyelashes and pink lids and followed the arch of her eyebrows, dark and plucked into a point where they highlighted the space between and the bridge of her nose. A good, straight ridge that ended in a small, acceptable snub which had an annoying off-centre crease over the dainty bulge to lean over and fade into the slightly flared nostrils. If she raised her head she felt they gaped but holding straight, face to face, she could imagine the nostrils as small, gently curved shells that sat delicately above the skeins of fine hair that added depth to her upper lip and the tweak, the uprising, of the still-red lip, full-curved out and down to balance with the the lower lip and it’s slightly fuller pad. She twitched her right check and her lips responded. She twitched the other and her image reacted. Still absorbed, she snarled silently and bared her teeth. Neat, white, large. She inspected the array and rested her lips.
She shook her head violently and water sprayed around from her chopped black hair. Spikes pushed away from her ears while other hair clung shortly on her forehead and a bead of water slicked down via tear duct. Down the beck between cheek and shell, sliding to the corner of her now pressed lips, slipping the curve of the dimple-less chin to hang in wonder, reflecting light as a minute snow-globe.
Madelie raised her left arm and with flat hand washed down the condensation on the mirror from top to bottom, waved away the image.
from ‘It Happened in Burnthorpe’
J Johnson Smith, Wordparc copyright 2019