Mirror image

My new hairdresser is like a male version of me: petite, androgynous. Foul mouthed. Sexy as hell. I see him parading around the neighbourhood. He wants me to notice him. I want him to notice me. I text him: can you squeeze me in for a quick trim this evening? He texts back: come at closing, see you soon. In the mirror our piercing blue eyes challenge one another. It’s a game of chicken: who will look away first? Neither of us backs down. I feel myself falling in love - or limerence, or lust - the longer I stare. It’s a dangerous collision course. At the basin, he stands close behind me. I imagine his hands roving down to my chest, massaging my breasts while I rub my clit. Can he tell what I’m thinking? Can he smell my wetness? He’s so close I can feel his breath. He slices expertly and gives me a beautiful cut, he still holds my gaze for most of that time. His groin presses against my arm, is it accidental? I turn and face his bulge. I kiss it. Then I get up, thank him for the trim, and pay him. Before I peel away my gaze, I say, see you soon. I walk away feeling his eyes on my back.