I was carrying the plate and mug from this morning's breakfast back to the kitchen.

The bathroom door was ajar.

And there, leaning over the sink, keeping her face close to the mirror, stood a beautiful apparition. A brunette, in profile. Her long brown tresses draped loosely over her shoulders, falling to the base of her shoulder blades. Clad in a light, full length silken gown of creamy white.

With her leaning in over the vanity, the gown caressed the curvature of her rear, two perfect round mounds, before dropping straight and loose, to within inches of the floor. Her slippered feet peeking out below.

The front of her gown fell straight from her neck, pushed out and sweeping snugly around the curves of her breasts, the shadows of which I could see clearly highlighted from the single lamp above.

The light from that lamp lit her face in a gentle glow, highlighting the cornered chin, angled jawbone and high cheek bones of her Celtic ancestry of which she is so proud, and I so grateful.

She looked twenty years old. So young, so slim, and yes, so perfect.

It was just a glimpse, a brief moment literally in passing. And it holds me still, a hundred minutes later.

And yes, I stopped to wrap my arms around my Irish lady on my way back.

I hope she understood why.