Neil

Neil

Neil stood before the mirror, buttoning his white shirt with practiced ease. The fabric was crisp, perfectly fitted. He moved with the precision of habit, his fingers gliding down the row of buttons.

Today was important, a seminar at the medical college, presenting his research before his professor and peers. He needed to look professional, composed.

He reached for his tie, charcoal grey, simple and understated. He looped it with precision, the knot forming effortlessly. His shoulders relaxed as he adjusted the collar. No fuss, no hesitation.

His dark grey eyes lifted to the mirror. Steady, reflective, giving nothing away. A psychiatrist’s eyes, trained to observe, to reveal nothing. The grey of his tie matched his eyes, lending him an air of quiet authority in perfect monochrome.

His curly black hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back once. One curl sprang back. He left it there.

The morning light filtered through the blinds, catching the lines of his face. Fair, almost luminous, his skin contrasted with the dark curls. His jaw was clean-shaven, his expression composed.

Neil was lean, almost thin, but his frame held a quiet strength. There was no vanity in his reflection, just discipline and purpose.

He picked up his glasses, slid them on. The lenses caught the light, sharpening his gaze.

He glanced at the clock. 7:05. On schedule.

Neil took one last look. Everything was in place.

He turned away, his steps light and deliberate. The day awaited.

~~~~~~~~~

Nita 

Nita stood before her mirror, a scowl tightening her lips. The dress was too fitted, clinging to her hips, making them look wider. She yanked it off, tossing it onto the growing pile on her bed.

Her eyes darted to the clock. 9:27. She was already late. He hated late.

She pulled on a kurta next, loose and flowing. Too loose. It made her look shapeless, swallowed whole.

Off it went. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, bare arms, thin but not thin enough. Her fingers pinched at her waist, feeling the soft skin, the faint curve she despised.

9:30. Her stomach twisted. The brain surgeon was never late. Never uncomposed. Never crumpled.

She grabbed a blouse, yellow and cheerful. It clashed horribly with her wheatish skin. She ripped it off, teeth clenched.

Her eyes flicked to her reflection. Kohled, slant eyes, black and sharp. Too sharp. Her small nose, too flat. Her face." too wide, too heart-shaped, too foreign. Everything wrong.

She yanked her hair back into a high ponytail, letting the long, jet-black strands fall down her back. Too severe. She pulled it loose, letting the fringe fall over her forehead. It looked childish.

9:34. Her heart lurched. She could already feel his grey eyes, cool and composed, the disapproving look that made her want to shrivel.

She grabbed a plain, white salwar kameez, simple and modest. It hung loose, covering everything. She hated it. She wore it anyway.

She jammed her feet into sandals, no time to change her mind. No time to fix herself. No time to be perfect.

9:36. Her heart was racing. The shrink would already be waiting. Composed, dignified, his face giving nothing away. She could already feel his eyes, steady and grey, seeing straight through her.

Nita rushed out the door, hair flying, the sandals slapping against her heels, hailing a rickshaw. The clock’s accusing hands burned in her mind.

She was late. Again.

Author's Note

Let me know what you think of this guy. Is he too perfect? Does he touch you or resonate with you somewhere? Or does he leave you cold?