No spark for words these days. I watch Tanim glare into the mirror, hating the man who gazes back in what seems an impossibly calm reflection. He dissects that glassy image critically, merciless in his analysis. He hates these high cheekbones, this straight nose and angled jaw. He has been called handsome because of these aristocratic features, has seduced unwittingly and unwillingly with these sculpted lips. He despises the cool, commanding gaze which could bring lovers and enemies both to their knees, if only he had either. Above all, though, he loathes the body which is so slender but well muscled, willowy yet unbreakable. He is unbreakable. These shoulders could never yield in surrender; this back could never curve in submission; these hands could never be bound in servility. His body is too strong, too stubborn to relinquish control to another. He hates it. Tanim stares into the mirror and abhors the man he sees more than anything, for all he wants is to give himself over to another and such natural power as his will never allow it. He is not meant for this life, yet it feels as though he is not meant for any other.