She found herself weary. The sight of herself in the mirror gave her a shrill feeling throughout her spine. She couldn’t believe how old she looked when she remembered her age. “25 isn’t the age you’re supposed to look this way,” she kept repeating in her mind.
Angela examined the wrinkles around her eyes. “Crow’s feet. That’s from all the laughter.” She stared at the lines between her eyebrows. “From deep concentration,” she whispered to herself. The lines were deep and thick as if perpetually separating the left brow from the right.
She found herself deep in thought at the events of the past few years. The second grew to a few hours of contemplation. She was stunned not only in the fact that she had lost her youth, but also in the fact that she had gained her worst nightmare; the life of a spinster during her quarter-life crisis. She felt cold; the chill of her dark past and the selfish gains she had made throughout her life.
She came to the realization it all meant nothing if it meant losing everything. She was petrified. Angela shook off the thought. She cleared the bangs covering her eyes and clumsily opened a tube of glossy pink lip gloss. “At least my hands are still youthful.”
Angela was right. Her hands were as new as a young child’s. They looked to carry no weight and no work. She smiled at this thought. Then, she started to cry.
