A warrior. A husband. A father. A lone tear rolls down your cheek and becomes lost in your long, dark hair. Your reflection doesn't move, chiseled jaw...line remaining impassive as you move to brush away the locks. Another drop falls silently into the water. The rushing noise in your ears and head blocking the minuscule splashing. The ripples emanate and slowly your image fades. You once again notice the eyes behind you, barely reflected, or perhaps conjured by your imagination, as the ripples. Mark was getting bald, his face started to get some wrinkles and the bags under his eyes made him look tired; the stranger was handsome, his face seemed to sparkle and the only wrinkles she could see so fast were a few crow’s feet around his eyes that gave him a friendlier look. Cynthia knew she shouldn’t be doing this, but she couldn’t help it. The stranger was stuck in her mind and when she woke up the next morning she had dreamed about this man, and how he had made love to her—true,. More

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