text: I just saw my reflection blink. It’s happened regularly, every so often, ever since I can remember. I smile back at my face in the mirror and continue combing my long, grey hair. It comforts me, especially on days when I’m feeling sad or alone or ugly or useless. That little blink. It’s gotten me through times of stress, through job changes and continental moves, through sickness and health. It got me through my father’s death and then again through my mother’s. It got me through my worst days and it lauded me through my best. I gaze longingly into those eyes that stare back from my reflection, those ones that are on my face but that are not my own. Shimmering and clear. They’re more gold today. Sometimes they’re green, sometimes more hazel, the little flecks of color moving with the morning sun, morphing with afternoon light, never the same color -- never the exact, precise same color -- twice. I like that about them; it makes me feel like I’m always learning about them. About him. Others don’t see these eyes when they look at me. They see my eyes, whatever those may be. Blue or brown or maybe purple, I don’t really care to know. After all, we don’t get lost in our own eyes. We aren’t soothed by our own gaze, aren't inspired by our own look. I’m inspired by his though. I wonder if he’s out there walking around with those gold, sometimes green, sometimes hazel eyes and looking in the mirror at my blue or brown or maybe purple eyes. Calmed when they blink in his reflection. Stirred when they look back at him in a way slightly ajar from how he’s looking with his own eyes, the eyes I see looking back in my reflection. I saw him once, a long time ago. Before wrinkles outlined my face and sunspots dotted my hands, I saw those eyes that I see in mirrors and glass doors and clear lakes, I saw those eyes without any reflection. It was only for a second, for a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it instant, in between subway stops at rush hour. I was standing on the train, tired and halfway-through a cold my coworker had given me, my fingers lazily holding onto the hand strap, no thoughts in my mind but of my warm bed and hot soup. I stared idly ahead of me, at the plexiglass subway doors across from me, and gazed at my reflection there. His eyes were more green that night, in the dank underground light. They squinted up ever so slightly, as if with a smile, and my runny nose felt a little bit better, my face relaxed. The subway stopped, and the train doors slid open; my reflection slid away too but the eyes remained. It took me too long to realize. I’ll always blame that coworker for getting me sick, for slogging my reactions in that moment. It took me too long to realize that the face around those now-green-in-the-dank-underground-light was not mine but his. It must have taken him too long to realize too. Because just before the doors kissed close again, I saw him jerk forward with a sudden understanding. I jerked forward too, but it was too late. The doors sealed, and the train jerked forward too. I’ve looked for him since. Searched commuters’ faces and expressions on pedestrians. But how often do you pass the same stranger twice? And how luckily often do you notice when you do? I think that was our chance, that was our illustrious moment on that tired night in the underground, and I don’t think we’ll get another one. We were blessed to have one kismet flash; who are we to deserve another? I used to think it sad. I used to curse fate and denounce its teasing tendrils. I grieved a love I lost without having. But then I glanced the mirror, and I saw my reflection blink. I never lost anything. I’ll never know my soulmate’s name, or his job, or what he likes or dislikes. I’ll never know his mannerisms or the little things that get on his nerves or if he takes his coffee black or sweet. But I know his eyes. Those ever-changing, ever-shimmering green and gold and hazel eyes that give me more than a name ever could.