d at myself。 Imagine getting all philosophical and sentimental5 about a mug of coffee。 I must be getting old。
And yet it was a young woman who stared back at me from the mirror。 A young woman full of promise and hope； a young woman with bright eyes and full lips just waiting to take on the world。 I never loved Mike anyway。 Besides there are more important things。 More important than love； I insist to myself firmly。 The lid goes back on the coffee just like closure on the whole Mike experience。
He doesn’t haunt my dreams as I feared that night。 Instead I am flying far across fields and woods； looking down on those below me。 Suddenly I fall to the ground and it is only when I wake up that I realize I was shot by a hunter； brought down by the burden of not the bullet； but the soul of the man who shot it。 I realize later； with some degree of understanding； that Mike was the hunter holding me down and I am the bird that longs to fly。 The next night my dream is similar to the previous nights； but without the hunter。 I fly free until I meet another bird who flies with me in perfect harmony。 I realize with some relief that there is a bird out there for me； there is another person； not necessarily a lover perhaps just a friend； but there is someone out there who is my soul mate。 I think about being a broken vase again and realize that I have glued myself back together； what Mike has is merely a little part of my time in earth； a little understanding of my physical be