Reflection.

After pulling out of an on-campus parking lot the other day, I braked to let a few girls walk in front of my car. I watched them pass, absentmindedly analyzing their carefully chosen color combinations, and then my heart replaced my tongue. Shocked, I watched a brunette tuck a copy of my favorite novel into her bookbag. That's mine, I thought, in a flash of possessive indignation. I know every word of that text; my favorite parts are marked with love, tattooed into my mind's skin; the characters live in my subconscious memory, a series of emergent illusions only half mine. Can they be hers, too? Does she see herself in their eyes, or does she see me without knowing who I am?