A Mourning Greeting

She stands in front of me. We are eye to eye, but I tower over her. I cannot stand to look into her numb eyes, drained and depraved, for more than a few seconds. I wave. She waves back. What an artificial encounter. Neither of us want to wave, to say hello, to give an impression of happiness to see each other. But we do, because what else do you do when you meet someone new?

I don't know her, but she won't leave me alone. We have nothing in common, yet we are identical. Maybe I do know her. That permanent indentation in her forehead, evidence of a chest tightening over the years, a breath shortening with each demolished dream. Yes, I know that odd dimple that only half of her face decided to embrace, as if it couldn't decide between glee and gloom. Those finger nails, eroded by uncertainty, those are not new to me. I know this girl. This realization brings about more terror than a stranger standing by my bedside.

I begin to suffocate her. I drape a transparent bag over her face and pull it tight. Her once erratic breaths fade away, and I am once again in silence. I reach up and pull the corners of her lifeless mouth up, and there's that damn dimple, and the forehead follows with its indentation. The rebellious tendencies of a face cannot be easily silenced. But I've practiced, and I've gotten good.

The rebellion has been tamed, the disjointed breathing muzzled. She stands still, waiting on my command, completely at my mercy. The glass in front of me as breakable as she is, but no one will ever know. No, the smell of a corpse can be easily veiled. There. I can't recognizer her anymore, and the reflected light lies to me again. That dimpled smile has perpetually chosen glee, and the numbed gray has somehow been sheltered underneath the prettiest blue. I wave. The stranger waves back.