Author Comments as the end.
	Wrote this one up today.
	Don't like the title.

	-Mike Noakes
***
             Reflective Snapshot

     "You going to be much longer in there?" his wife asked,
knocking on the door.
     Rubbing palms against tired eyes, Ranma stumbled up to the
sink.  He stared blearily into the mirror.  "Nah."
     "It's just we don't want to keep them waiting. . ."
     "Yeah."  He pulled his hair back, raking fingers through and
straightening a few snarls and tangles.  He twined the strands
together into their pigtailed shape, tying it back with a thread.  He
slipped, the thread came loose, the hair escaped from its confines. 
"Shit," he muttered, and reached down to grab the tie.  "I know," he
continued, louder.  "I'll be done in a 'sec."  He heard youthful cries
from outside his window - his kids, playing.  He hoped they didn't
mess up their clothes.
     He pulled his hair back again.  He decided against bothering
with the pigtail.  A simple ponytail would suffice.  It would look
better too, down at the beach.  Turning his head slightly in the
mirror, he was pleased with what he saw.  No grey - yet.  Although
he was still a bit young to worry about that.  No baldness, either,
which was a relief.  He washed his face and brushed his teeth, put
on some deodorant; he didn't bother shaving.
     Another knock on the door.  "Okay to come in?"
     "Yeah."
     He made room for her at the sink.  "I picked out your bathing
suit and left it on the bed," she said.  "Hope it's ok.  It should still
fit.  It's been awhile since we went swimming at the beach."
     Ranma nodded.  "Thanks."  He leaned over and gave her a
kiss on the cheek.
     "Un."  She rubbed her cheek.  "You haven't shaved yet."
     "No point."  He splashed some water on his face.  The
stubble faded.
     "Ah."  She took possession of the mirror, started putting on
makeup.  He stepped away scratching himself.  "I got the kids ready
- they're all set," she said, and then, "You know what you're going
to wear?"
     He glanced back.  She still had a good body to her, even
after two pregnancies.  She kept in shape.  The martial arts helped,
of course - though she had slacked off on those, considerably.  Then
again, hadn't they all?
     "I'll find something," he answered over his shoulder,
entering his bedroom.  Sunlight beamed in through the large open
windows.  So did a strong breeze, ruffling the curtains and cool
against his bare skin.  Stretching, he opened the dresser they shared. 
He slipped on a clean pair of boxers and pulled on a bra.  After a
moment's thought, he opened the closet.  He searched through the
clothing but could not find what he was looking for.
     "Hey?" he called out.
     "Yeah?"
     "Where's that sundress?"
     A moment's pause and then she stuck her head out the
bathroom.  "What?"
     "That sundress - you know, the white one?  I borrowed it
last week.  It's not in the closet."
     "Oh," she answered.  "It's hanging behind the door."  She
pointed with the hairbrush in her hand and then disappeared back
into the bathroom.
     Nodding, Ranma looked behind the door.  The dress was,
indeed, hanging there and he pulled it off its hanger.   He gave it a
quick shake and nudged the door shut.  A bang echoed from
downstairs as one of the kids let the front door slam.
     "You going to wear the bathing suit under the dress?" his
wife asked from the other room.  He glanced at the bed and saw the
red bikini laying out on it.  He frowned slightly at her choice, not
entirely pleased.
     "Nah," he answered, "I'll put it on when I get there."  He
started to unbutton the line of bright plastic buttons along the back of
the dress.  "You sure Ryoga's comin'?"
     "He's supposed to.  She said he would, anyway."
     Ranma smiled slightly.  That was good.  It had been awhile
since he had seen pig-boy.  Although it probably wasn't appropriate
to call him that anymore, he remembered.  His brow creased
slightly.  They could get a little sparring in, maybe, by the water. 
They could probably both use the practice - especially Ryoga.  He
stepped one leg into the dress.
     "It'll be good to see them again, ne?" his wife said.  "The
kids'll be happy. . ."  He looked up to answer; he caught a glance of
himself in the mirror opposite him.
     He shuddered.  He froze.
     Everything came into sudden, exhilarating, excruciating
sharpness, sensations, sounds, scents, details focusing: the gentle but
chilling wind across bare leg, arm, exposed breast; birds crying,
children playing, wife speaking; blooming flowers and freshly cut
grass, a heady spring bouquet blending with the domestic fragrance
of a couple's bedroom; intense clarity of the room, every dent in the
furniture, scratch on the door, sharp relief of every object, pile,
mess, dirty clothes, mark on the wall. . .  Nothing overwhelmed the
other, required or received more attention; the whole bombardment
of the senses circled his still form, fed in equally through the
peripheries, came to him as one.  Not a bombardment - a caress.  
     Yet something did draw his attention, specifically.  A mark
on the wall - no, a bug - no, a snail.  Half way up - or was that
down? - the wall, next to the mirror.  Moving slowly, creeping,
hardly moving at all.  Stopped.
     Stopped, crawling.  Towards - what?  The floor, the ceiling,
an end - and then what?  Where to next?  Towards the mirror, maybe
- towards the smooth surface, gleaming in the light, narrow wooden
frame; framing a picture, really, a snapshot: young woman standing
surprised stepping into white dress wearing boxers and bra. 
Tumble of fiery red hair in a loose ponytail hanging over the
shoulder to add a splash of color.  Composition lacking somewhat,
but excellent in its honesty.  In its horror.
     Is that me, crossed his mind, but of course he knew it was;
the real question was: how did that become me, how did I come to
this.  This isn't me, he thought, this was never me, was never meant
to stay, should have been rid of, cured, long ago.  The reflection
mocked him.  How could it not be him, it was his eyes staring from
beneath red bangs, out of a soft and mature face, from this  
smooth, lean, curved body - this woman's body.  He could not deny
those curves: one leg in the dress, the other back, body bent forward
slightly, firm breasts held up by his brassiere: what _man_ had a
body like this, what _man_ wore such clothes?  His clothes - not his
wife's, but _his_, some bought on his own, his preference, his
choice of fashion and style.
     How?  There was a time - it felt long ago, but he could
remember, not _that_ long - that he would have died before wearing
such clothes - a least, not without a purpose, a plan, a reason;
modeling for Happosai had restored his strength, shopping with his
mother had saved his life, but this - what has _this_ given him, what
reason excuses this familiarity?  That defiance, that resistance had
been essential to him, core; had he just dismissed it outright?  No -
there had to be a reason.
     But what?  All this - the clothes, the bras and panties and
stockings, the makeup he'd worn when going out with his wife or
friends on a rainy night - were nothing, really, just symptoms of the
real problem, extensions of the body.  The curse was the problem,
had always been.  With a vehemence greater than that defiance - if
never expressed as loudly - he had sworn to be rid of this body and
curse.  At any cost.  It had been a dream, his dream, and what could
be more powerful than a dream?  For years that idea had driven him,
been the rock that secured him during the tumult of a chaotic youth. 
Yet, looking into the haunted woman's eyes reflected back at him,
that dream had obviously been thrown aside for something else.
     "Ryoga's so good with them.  A bit rough, maybe, but he. . ." 
An unwanted voice intruded.
     Ryoga: enemy, rival, greatest challenge, partner, friend; the
lost boy of his past and the good friend of his present.  Ranma
simply could not make the association between the two extremes. 
Ryoga had had a dream, too: revenge, the death of his nemesis.  He
had relinquished the dream as well - but never in the way Ranma
had.  He may have abandoned his desire for retribution, yet replaced
it, for had not Ryoga steadfastly, doggedly, pursued _his_ dreams
until success?  Ryoga was cured, Ryoga was married to the woman
he loved, Ryoga was happy, waiting by the beach, not standing,
frozen, staring at some snail on a wall.  Ryoga may have relaxed in
his martial prowess, but what of it?  To him, martial arts had been a
means to an end - to kill his mortal foe; once that desire had been
put aside, why continue his single-minded training at the cost of all
else?
     But not for Ranma.  Martial Arts had not been a means unto
an end - they had been an end unto themselves.  Learning the Art for
the purpose of learning it, to excel at it.  To achieve and surpass -
not to be the best fighter, though he had been at one time - but simply
to exist with the heady knowledge and acknowledgment of one
simple fact: _he was fulfilling his destiny_.  How many people
could make that claim - that they were living their life to its fullest
potential, in the role life had intended for them?  He had known and
felt that electrifying certainty, had ridden the confidence through
every obstacle and overcome every challenge.  He had once lived
his dream: the greater dream, far greater than the desire for a cure,
the defining quality of his life, the reason for which he had been
born, existed, trained - been the best.  The Art.
     And now?  The rush was gone.  Like his search for a cure,
he had thrown aside the dream for - what.  This room, this comfort? 
This bed, chair, dresser, rug, bathroom - what man could excel at
anything with these comforts, these distractions.  This mirror -
innermost desires thrown aside to be this, this married adult parent
secure soft woman approaching middle-age?  No.  This was not his
life, could never be his life.  What had he given up his dreams for. 
Not this.
     What could he do?  He could do what that snail never could:
get up and run.  His body, his reflection, his mind tensed up at the
idea, a tingling, an ephemeral hint of what he once knew filled him,
a sudden rightness descended upon him.  Yes.  That was what he
could do.  Leave, run.  Travel, training trips of his youth, regain his
hardness, his mastery, find his cure, embrace his dreams.  With a
solid certainty that left him feeling dizzy, sick, he. . .
     "Hey."  A voice interrupted.  "Hey.  You ok?"
     He turned.   His wife was looking at him with concern.  The
youngest came running in and hid behind her legs.  Youthful giggles
filled his ears.  The laughing eldest followed in and tried to grab the
sibling.  Without looking down she calmed them both with a touch. 
Ranma looked at them for what felt like a long time.  A young voice
screamed within his head.  
     "Yeah," he answered.  He smiled.  Stepping into the dress
he pulled it up around him.  "Think you could button me up?"

                   The End.

***

	Hiya!

	Well - hope you liked it.  A bit different, I suppose.  I'm a bit 
unsure about it - I think I kinda lose whatever I had going right around 
where Ranma's train of thought gets first interrupted by the voice.
	Anyway - the small fic came to me in its entirety while studying 
a few weeks ago, right after reading 'The Clerk's Tale' from 'The 
Canterbury Tales'.  Not sure if that influenced it at all.  I know 
another book - Run, Rabbit, by John Updike, did.  I'm also working out an 
idea I'm going to develop further in the fic I'm currently plotting 
that'll follow Choices - what exactly does Ranma want.
	Uh... well, guess that's it.  C&C always, really appreciated.  
And - hey!  I actually finished a story!  And kept it short!  Yay - a first!

	Later!
	-Mike Noakes