By Clif Travers

The boy is still, staring at himself. He runs an uncalloused finger along a hairless cheek. “Do I look like Emma Thompson right now?” he asks without turning from the glass.

The girl glances over and quickly returns to her magazine. “No. Not at all.”
“I feel as though I look like her in one of those movies where she’s staring out a window contemplatively.”
“Well, you don’t. Sorry.” The sound of a turning page.
“But I feel as though I do.”
She turns another. “Nope.”

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