"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. Slipping, 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 the 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'm gonna borrow it. 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 - was 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?"