Through the cracked mirror, Alice stares at herself and wonders if there is any difference between her and this woman before her now.
An hour ago, he kissed her by the gate. It was still dark outside; even the rooster in her neighbor’s yard had not deemed it fitting to crow out as was its morning ritual. He said goodbye and that he will see her in a week. She said okay and reminded him to stay safe. He smiled and said, always. Then he asked anxiously (again) if she was really alright. This time, she had to roll her eyes at him and there was a tartness in her voice when she answered that yes she is more than alright and that he should stop the Sir Galahad demeanor because she is not a damsel in distress, far from it. She had sex, lost her virginity but that doesn’t mean she got injured in any way. Jonas hugged her and he told her (again) that he loves her. Then he walked away and was gone.
Through the cracked mirror, Alice stares at herself and wonders if there is any difference about the way she feels about him now compared to yesterday.
Of course it would come to this, who was she kidding? It’s not as if they were living in the eighteenth century when remaining chaste until matrimony was paramount.
She was (is) not Maria Clara, after all. Far from it. She detests that woman, in fact. She has never understood the fascination with that Jose Rizal character, insipid weak simpering girl. But Alice, Maria Clara was a product of her time so give her a break. Why — would you be doing things differently if you were in her shoes? If you were the lovechild of an indio woman and a Spanish friar, forever surrounded by chaperones and duenas, cosseted by your shallow social climbing father, would you not have behaved like the way she did? Don’t be so goddamned superior; you would probably have been worse than Maria Clara, come to think of it!
Alice stares at herself. At her shoulder length hair that he kept playing with just a few hours ago. At her eyes, pupils dilated. She read somewhere that the sympathetic nervous system kicks in during sex and that’s the reason for the pupillary dilatation; and that girls tend to look more attractive to the opposite sex when they have dilated pupils.
Alice looks at herself and wonders what he saw in her. He often said that he finds her beautiful; which she just took with a grain of salt. Why? She wanted to badger him: what makes me beautiful? This hair? My eyes? My nose? My lips? These freckles on my face? Just what is beautiful about them?
As far as her physical attributes went, Alice was never vain. Her body, her face were what they were and that’s that. She regards them with a brutal matter-of-factness; so that she cannot understand when someone would regard them (herself) with sentiment or covetousness. She just didn’t believe that there is anything different (or special) about her face, her body compared with that of any other woman.
Alice stares and stares. She didn’t dare touch herself.