reflection
I heard her crying in the bathroom.
I couldn't see her. I didn't recognize the sound of her sobs. I couldn't have. I don't know anyone here yet.
I felt self conscious. I wanted to leave, to get out of there before she saw me. I didn't want her to see the face of the woman that had heard her in her private moment.
I found it coincidental, too, given that I had just been crying in a bathroom myself the day before, although I had been blessed with the ability to lock the door.
I imagined why she might be crying. Perhaps she made a mistake at work and her boss yelled at her. Perhaps she'd just been let go. Perhaps her heart was broken, or she got a phone call announcing bad news from a lover or a family member or a friend. Maybe she wasn't feeling well, or had a husband or a wife or a girlfriend or a child that was sick. I painted pictures and wrote stories about her in my mind, not unlike the story that my friend from around the globe had just shared with me about the possible backstories behind a misdirected letter. I thus had a kindred moment of closeness with my friend that I've never met, her tears a butterfly's wings.
I saw her reflection in the mirror next to me before she left. I wouldn't have recognized her as the one had she not run the back of her hand across her nose in a telltale motion as she glanced up in the mirror, the blush of crying hidden beneath her dark and flawless skin. I found meeting even her reflection too intimate, quickly averting my eyes and desperately wishing I could fade from view until she exited the room.