"Mirror, mirror ...for I have sinned again."

Many a sentence nowadays begins with Ifs. 

But beyond these conditions we place, and the words we choose to express them is the extempore present. The exact spot of light we're standing under; all that is, as it is now. It needs to be embraced for a certain sanity, for a future. Not rejoiced and celebrated. Simply accepted and learnt. But rarely do we ever learn. 

She steps in and steps out. Dabbles a foot in. Only a little. A stir. To err. It matures into sin.
Sin again. Err as a human. Sin as a woman and sooner or later he joins you as a man and begins to be, behind the curtains. Sorry, pretends to be. Before veils and walls, it is never more than meets the eye.

 For every sin, she steps back, reprimands herself, talks to herself, gazes into the mirror, explains & repeats one sentence ten times too many and stares back-- but there is an enjoyment in the enactment, the display of a role, the sheer entertainment. Oh, to entertain and to please! Pleasure! Pleasures beyond the juices that dribbled down her chin from the crisp apples she dug her teeth into, every season. Fresh! Ripe! Right off her mother's farm.
[Looking Glass!] She smears on a wine red, smacks her lips, pouts to be Monroe and feels like the woman who becomes one while playing all that is necessary to feel like one.

[Lights...] She struts in this time, and he bows down before her. [and camera!] He calls the Name, he claims he worships her, every part of her, every moment that they relish together. To cut them out like shapes out of coarse pages of his diary, preserve them and live in them forever to be trapped in them, is his sole, deep desire. 

[Mirror, mirror...] But god forbid it should come true! Only a performance... to be true. A thought sends waves down their spines.

[Exeunt] She rubs it all off memory. An undoing, with every stroke of the make-up remover she presses, wipes across her face, just as unsuited and sinless as he returns to the one he has planned to spend his entire life with.