I stare at myself, waiting for something to happen, and then, slowly, it does. I look more like September than I ever have before. The shape of my face is the shape of her face; my eyes are lightened and narrowed, the look in them so like the look that is often in hers. She gazes out of my coating, like a thief caught breaking into a building. In the mirror I can see that the mark on my arm has spread, stretching now nearly down to the wrist and up to the crease in the elbow. September wears me like a coat.
