Narcissism

He stopped only when he reached 34th street, panting heavily, hair flying in a neat mess about his head. Didn't the girl understand he wasn't interested? Her curves were ill suited for his tastes, her twittering voice completely at odds with his personality. He sighed, straightening his hair, curling it around his fingers and pulling at his expensively tailored shirt so that it flowed in harsh wrinkles down past his tailbone. He wanted to look relaxed, not messy. Not like Echo, who walked around looking as if she'd just gone to bed, skirt rumpled, buttons uneven and a mousy bird's nest in her hair.

They had found each other earlier, and she rushed across the street to be with him, cheeks flushed from the combination of peckish air and the mere sight of her infatuation.

"Get away from me!" He had cried, repulsed, pushing the smiling girl away from him. "Keep your hands off, and do not touch me!"

She'd cooed at him in response, attempting to be soothing, exciting. "Touch me!" Fluttering back to him, her hands stretched for his soft cheeks, "Touch-"

"No!" With a first mighty shove, he'd set off running, traveling the street as if he had wings, his feet not touching the ground in his haste to get away from the girl. Echo, who obsessed over him night and day, remained on the cement sidewalk, fingers hiding her smiling face as she streamed tears of heartbreak.

She was miles behind him now, however, as he passed the wide reflective window of a large clothing store and peered inside. Maybe there was something for him inside, something inexpensive because nothing cheap could ever come close to matching his beauty. If nothing else, the window would perhaps make a good mirror for him, aiding him in his near constant preening.

But his eyes focused instead on the gorgeous boy standing just inside the doors, staring back at him. With hair that was raven black, hue that's lightness was matched only his own, and large, luminous blue eyes. He longed to touch the other boy. To run his hands through hair that looked as silken as broken feathers.

Echo watched him from across the street, watched him stare at his reflection. She heard him ask the window its name.

"What's your name??" she repeated, seeking the answer to the question burning in her breast.

"I'm Narcissus." He thought he answered to the boy he saw.

"Narcissus," Echo sighed, her voice somehow gliding to him on the non- existent wind. "Narcissus."

"Won't you come out? Come meet me. We could go for dinner, have a late summer fling! It's August. We still have time!"

"Time!"

"But I'd love to get to know you!"

"I love you..!" In those words, Echo begged for him to turn around, to see her and not his reflection in the office window. But he didn't. He heard those words and his heart sung, thinking the beautiful creature in the panel of glass had said them, that the one being in all the world that he could ever love already returned those feelings.

"Then come to me!" And at those words, Echo rushed across the busy street, wrapping him in her arms.

"Come to me!" she demanded, already by his side. He recoiled, as if burned by the cold downy arms that wrapped around his waist. He ran, and turned to see his reflection running from her as well, if only in the other direction. His will was so intent on the retreating figure that he missed the light, and the car that subsequently ran over him.

"No!" he cried, his last word torn from his throat, "My storefront love!" and then he was dead.

Echo, perched stricken on the curb, clawed at her chest while the ache centered in her stomach, and repeated those words until she withered away in the mid summer rain.

"No. No. my love.!"