Reflection

The water in the shaving bowl ripples when he sets aside the razor blade. What was it she had seen?
His face is sharp and blocky, he thinks, like chipped stone, even where the cheeks and chin sneak away into their slight curves. Except when he turns. Then they are full and round as knots and the skin of his cheeks is drawn taut from the bone to the bar line of his jaw.
His nose is wide, he thinks, shaped like a fallen kite, rounded on the corners and fading at the tail of his bridge. His finger goes along the bottom, feeling how top and base are straight to their meeting. It might even point towards her face. Does she see it as an arrow?
His brows are even more level than his jaw, and the dark hair on them all of one thickness until a taper just beyond his eyes. The shaving he has just done on his head leaves his black hair too short for grasping. It borders his face in a circle, then a steep cliff above his ears.
She had asked him why, once, why he cut his hair so close. Perhaps she would like it if...

(Written by the player of Tarvarthal)