The first thing everyone notices about her are, of course, the white detached sleeves. Despite all the other frills and the bright red, it's always the detached sleeves that garner the most attention at first. You can't tell at a distance because they're tied to her arms most of the way up, but when you get closer, it's obvious. I've asked her why several times, but she's never really given a satisfactory answer. I think, way back when, it was her way of distinguishing herself from any other miko on the planet, which is dumb, because she's the most unique miko I've ever met, but then again, I've only met one other one. Anyway...

Usually its the red that focuses your attention on her dress next. She's actually got several different lengths, but the one most people see - and the one I call her "work dress" - is about knee length. The hem of the skirt is frilled with white, and just above the hemline there's a white dashed line pattern that goes all the way around. It's a perfect fit on her, which is more than a lot of people can say about their own clothes, especially my too-big and too-small skirts that I refuse to toss in the trash. Other than the frills, though, it's simple, just like her. Her small size one waist holds the thing up, with a little matching red button right on the front.

The shirt of her getup is the only thing not exclusively red or white. An orange ascot is tied in the center, wrapping around and underneath a white neckline. The neckline has frills as well, extending downward across the main red part of her shirt, with a red dashed line pattern just on the inside of the white. It's the complete opposite of the skirt, intentionally so, to break up the monotony of red-white-red-white. A simple thing to be sure, again, just like her. Underneath that shirt somewhere is a pair of- well, she'd say she's got nothing impressive. It's why she doesn't care when people stare at her chest. There is some truth there; after all, she doesn't eat a lot, and when you don't eat, you don't gain weight, and it doesn't do good for your figure when you don't eat.

Viewed from the side, you can see her sarashi wrapping around her chest. Again, she doesn't care. On cold days, mind, she'll wear her thicker clothing with an orange scarf, but that's rare because during the winter she hibernates like a bear... or I guess, her mentor would be a more appropriate analogy.

When you stare at her face, the first thing you see isn't her actual face, but that gigantic bow on the top of her head. Like everything else, it's red, frilly, and adorned with a dashed line pattern just inside the edge of the bow. The bow ties up her hair, which she's worn in a multitude of ways - ponytail, twintails, loose, even a bobcut once when she was younger - yet the only thing about her hair that remains constant are the twin matching red-white tubes, holding in locks of hair that hand around the side of her face. It's her answer to a braid because she's too lazy to braid it, nevermind that I've offered several times.

Her face is one of stoic beauty. Almond-shaped hazel eyes, a small button nose, soft pink lips... it's the kind of face that would drive many men wild. Sure enough, it has, but behind that calm facade and polite smile are things that you can only see if you've been her best friend for twelve years or more.

It's her eyes. Inside those eyes is a typhoon of emotions, none of which I could charitably call good for you. They're the eyes of a girl saddled with the responsibility of a whole clan; tired eyes, subdued eyes... lonely eyes. There's a terrible sadness to her if you stare at her long enough, behind that cute smile. Maybe I'm waxing poetic, but it's the type of face that makes you want to give her a hug and take all that lonliness away.

I could never imagine being her. An entire country depends on her continuing existence, on her ability to fight "evil" wherever it lies; a country that doesn't know what she's sacrificed to keep them safe. But she doesn't complain; she's not like that. She doesn't talk about her problems, instead offering an ear to listen to yours. You can talk to her about whatever you want, and she'll offer advice the best she can. It won't always be friendly, but it'll be honest, and that rough honesty is sorely lacking in this place, with its white lies and deflected questions. She doesn't seem to mind, but I know it does. After every incident, those eyes... those eyes of hers get a little bit darker, her posture gets a little more slumped, the shrine becomes a little more untidy.

"You want some tea?" she asks me. Of course I say yes, but that I'm good for it and I'll pay her back. She waves it off. She always does. "If you want to thank me, leave a donation."

You'd be surprised to learn that I do in fact leave donations whenever I have the spare change. But this isn't about me.

"What are you writing about?" She asks me, pointing at the wire-bound notebook sitting on my lap. I gesture with my pen, telling her that I'm writing things about things, and she shouldn't snoop. She grins and tries to take the notebook from me, but I fight her off by pushing her face away. When she finally settles down with a pout, I offer to let her see it later. Maybe.

I ask her if she wants to talk about anything in particular, just like always. You can tell a part of her is begging to release the floodgates, but it's not in her job description to ever appear weak. If she did, even for a moment, she'd never live it down... well, that's what she believes. "I'd rather hear about you," she says in a quiet voice. "Tell me, how was your day?"

So of course I humor her by launching into a tirade about stupid fairies and puppeteers. It's what she wants to hear, and she laughs the right moments, smiles at the others, shares my frustrations. She never complains about having to bear the pressures of another person's life. But... I guess that's why to many she's the perfect maiden.

I hate it. Hate it hate it hate it. But when her closest friend can wring out her problems, then there's nothing that can be done. But I'll keep trying.

Because to me, Reimu isn't just a depressed miko living on the edge of civilization. She isn't some great barrier against the evils of the world. She isn't a loadstone capable of bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders.

She's my best friend. She's the only one who deserve all the adoration and loyalty the Buddhists, Taoists, and Kochiyas of the world get. She's the one who needs to be allowed to lie down and relax for once in her life.

She's my miko.

...oh my, listen to me, the hopeless romantic.

It doesn't matter. I'll keep trying. One day, the floodgates will open.

One day.

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Something of an experiment. I'm trying this thing where I describe touhous from other touhous viewpoint.