X

X rose, stretching and taking great gulps of air, moving to the bathroom and peeking into the mirror at the blank canvas of a face. "What will this day deliver?" X whispered. "That is always the question." Standing in front of the closet, X threw the doors open wide and pondered the vast array of possibilities. "Who am I to be?" X asked the wardrobe, and seemed immediately drawn to the hazel eyes, the long brown hair, the petite bow of a mouth, but also the ivory Oxford shirt, the fitted tweed vest, the tailored trousers, and the wingtip shoes. "Interesting," X commented, moving to put them on. "And what does the world need?" X opened the other, smaller closet across the room and, stepping back to take in all of the options, felt called to the switchblade (which fit nicely in the pocket), the nunchaku, and the petite forearm crossbow. X arranged the gear to support the choice of being left-handed and took stock of the whole look in the floor-length mirror. "The day is already full of intrigue," X proclaimed happily, marveling that today's self defined as an antiquarian avenging angel. "How marvelous."