Harry's Eyes

When he danced in the rehearsal studio, Harry's eyes never left the mirror for more than a fraction of a second. He was mesmerized by his own image, fascinated by his own grace, his own muscles, his flawless proportions. Incredible that he, Harry, of all people, had the perfect body for a dancer, in a world where nothing is perfect.

Sometimes he stopped dancing to look more closely at his face, the high cheekbones, squarish chin, classical nose. Yes, he, Harry had the perfect face for a dancer. Yet as he ran his fingers over that landscape of jawbone and cheekbone, forehead and bridge, he cringed.

He hid the cringe from himself with a twirl and a leap and flattering thoughts. How could he acknowledge it was the glint in his own eyes that terrified him? His eyes reflected every negative thought he had about himself. They were sparks of self-hatred flying through the air as he danced.

Every now and then he sipped some beer or took a puff of pot and again peered into the mirror. At a slightly softer image, at an entrancing, perfect image, that had something intangible wrong with it.

Each day he sipped more beer, puffed more pot, invented more flattering thoughts. Yet day by day when he glanced in the mirror, he glanced with fear, and his fear magnified the glint, and the glint magnified the fear. The intangible grew more tangible, began to show in the corners of his mouth, in the skin of his cheeks, the tilt of his head, the curve of his shoulders. Eventually his while body becme a whirling, leaping homage to self-hatred.

And it all started with harry's eyes.