The girl in the mirror couldn't be me. Yet when I moved, she moved, Ibrushed my hair gently behind my ear and the girl in the mirror did thesame. How ...ould my mother and sister do this to me?I was a boy; at least I thought I was. The image in the mirror told mesomething else; the image was that of a very pretty girl. My mother andsister had worked on my hair and eyebrows giving me a more feminine look.But it is my face I am looking at, my face under the slight makeup thatthey had applied. How. I hear your knock and I slowly open the door for you, smiling as I look you up and down slightly, noticing you’re dressed in khakis and a dark green button down, top button undone. You walk inside and look around, ‘Wow…you went all out, you really didn’t need to do that.’ I shrug slightly and brush past you as I go to pour two glasses of wine, my back to you as I stand in front of the cabinet. ‘Why is that?’ I ask and I gasp slightly as I feel your hand slide along my waist and draw me back. More

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