[Herefind a deleted excerpt from a short story I've been working on. The excerpt: no longer appropriate for the the story it (the story) has become. Herefind: now a word.]
He did know this: Sara was divided from herself, as God divided night from day, earth from water—as though a wall had formed inside of her, a cancer. She was lost in the past, her mirror showing Sara at 17, raw, wet, hideous, hidden away inside a plastic Sara controlled from a command center inside the forehead—Sara who turned herself into a fly, once, on her own wall and could not be sure now that she had ever changed back —so when people loved her, she could only say, "They love a lie." But that was the lie. She just had a bum mirror. She hadn't understood that when she had seen his eyes point as if at hers, those eyes were not a picture, not a narrative, not a mistake or illusion. He had really seen her. There was no plastic Sara. Nothing was hideous.
[Oops, there's no darned color in this post! Here you go:]
darned color
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