MIRROR

MIRROR

1

They tell me I’ve always been the one to reflect and twist things that don’t bend. Well, I think it’s high time to prove them right because it just so happens that there is something I’d been meaning to get off my chest.

I was listening to the music that I didn’t understand sitting by a counter of a ski resort place we decided to rent for the holidays. It was supposed to be one of those weekend trips to unveil and let our hair down; to be away from the Big Apple for a while to regain some of the mana spent at work. The music, right—it was the sort of pop song you hear from every hole until it infects you, and you inadvertently catch yourself reciting meaningless lyrics about a town girl that could, jerking your shoulders, like a junkie in the middle of the dancefloor. I was sitting in front of a huge windowpane—a series of them—opening out to the mountains curved in peaky summits and the whitest layer of snow that looked as if the smog rested upon a quiet lake; surreally magnificent yet all the more soothing and serene. That was what they call an outhouse, an addendum to the remote semi-large hotel we’d picked. My friends were having a loud conversation which to me was not so loud because the tunes were deafening. I’d squint and tilt my head to try to get at what they were saying and nod understanding maybe half. A glass of what the busboy behind the bar referred to not without awe as Macallan 18 was resting in my hands and glugged so pleasantly, reflecting its amber colours seasoned with the scent of ancient casks. At least, that’s what it said on the wine card. The thing was very strong, but good, though, and, I guess, it had taken its toll when I was chugging the third one. I rolled the expensive liquid in the glass, and it splashed, like the puny golden ocean. The cottage boasted a couple of floors and a fine set of windows to truly please your eyes. You certainly won’t see any of this beauty in Canada because local views are overrated.

“… and enjoy this stuff!”

“What was that?” I asked, savouring my money well spent.

“I said, how can you drink it slow and still enjoy this stuff, Luc?”

I shrugged. What could I say to him? Brian was one of those people who thought they knew crap about wine but bought one at random that has a fancy Italian name and costs just a little above average so as not to come off cheap. He was the closest I had to a friend who could actually hear me out when I was in the mood to complain about my private life; I even cried at his shoulder a few times. Some none the wiser might have thought we had something going on behind the curtains, but Brian didn’t care about my legs, or that I didn’t look like a typical js dev. Besides, he had a great taste in clothes, as well: fancy suits, neat shirts, and good-looking bow-ties.

He smelled the contents of my glass and grimaced as if he just smelled an old sock. I threw my hair around that hit his face and pursed my lips; some of the lipstick had now become part of the glass, but I liked the pretty crimson trace it left. Haughtiness read on his face, as I bottomed the scotch up, whereas Brian inspected his nails that looked probably better-tended than mine.

“Livin’ good, handsome!” I winked at Brian. He winced and went to join the rest of our friends who were enjoying the fireplace; artificial but pretty decent, and I didn’t have one at home, so I had to like it.

I took out a small mirror and checked whether there was any colour left on my lips realizing slowly how real silly it was because there was a whole mirror at the other end of the place by the stairs, but I figured I didn’t want to cross the space with so many people and that music. I slid off the barstool, adjusting my evening dress, and landed on my feet. This is where things began to feel a little mushy, and I had the shoes off, mind that. Yep, I thought, focusing my vision. Livin’ good, indeed. Who was I kidding? The view, the booze, the promo, and the vibes. What could go wrong?

You are better off not asking that question.

2

I squeezed my way through some of the people that were somehow dancing in this house, carrying my heels and a half glass of that fancy stuff that burnt my mouth, like a violet-haired Cinderella. Someone nearly dropped me but caught me in midair. I nodded a solemn thank-you but didn’t see who it was. I slipped my jacket on and cast a glance at the party before going out into the cold because someone tuned in the good old Britney that I rocked to in my teens. To hell with it—I stayed and danced for just a little. There was a smirky smile that never left my face, and I liked it. When I turned to go, my sight was blocked by a pair of large shoulders bulging through a blue velvet shirt. Yeah, that skinny chick with violet hair, he was blabbering. I didn’t recognize the voice and cleared my throat so that he’d get a move on. He turned—a bearded guy of about 30. He wiped his mouth and went red, looking into his highball, finally getting out of my way. I put the shoes on and pulled the handle with my good elbow.

When I stepped outside, the cold air filled my lungs, and the gossamer plumes spiraled up towards the starry sky. The Polar Lights, or what my grandmother would call Aurora Borealis, full of haze and harlequin-forest green splashed across the velvet dark. A few people were slouching over nocturnal cigarettes, holding champagne glasses, by the porch, discussing a Tarantino movie. I made my way back to the hotel where the valet greeted me and checked my bracelet. He smiled, and I saw that he was guessing whether I was planning to get some tonight. How filthy, I almost said it out loud and on second thought even considered that faintest possibility.

Even though the counter was far from the entrance, there was still that mild draught to keep the jacket hung over my shoulders. I asked for another shot of this hot water; at this point I’d got used to it, and there was even a hint of sweetness to it. My hair was ruffled but apparently in a way that could drive men crazy because some of them definitely stared from time to time. That skinny chick with violet hair, remember? I saw them smoke inside; guess, the local stuff didn’t bother much unless you didn’t do it in front of the other guests at daylight. I never liked smoking but sometimes found it quaintly romantic—you know, choking the sorrow with the distaste of cheap smoke that slowly kills your bleeding heart. Quite literally, that is. Thinking about it, I remembered we had a gym back at our office with a huge sign that read “Commit to stay fit”; it’s curious that both of those words have IT in it and have absolutely nothing to do with most of that lot. While I travelled back to my hometown, albeit mentally, I recalled a few dear friends of mine. Quite a few people lost their jobs owning to the pandemics yet some managed to prosper. I figured the reason why they’d behave as they did, but it still struck me as odd. We used to meet every weekend to go to a fancy Italian place and spill it to each other about the assholes that some of the men be; then we’d likely go window shopping to a local mall and make fun of the cops looking grim and laying tickets—always got me, this one—to the windshields of expensive cars that found a wrong place to park. Before I left the country, we got together and talked about the new Sex and the City flick they released, starring an older version of Sarah Jessica Parker still rocking it, which turned out to be quite good. My friends told me they had been sacked. I sipped on my margherita that tasted funny and told them about my promo. Some of them had no idea what that was, but when they got the idea, they all nodded and ran their eyelashes over everything but me. Odd, wouldn’t you say? I didn’t get it back then, but when I realized we hadn’t talked nor met for over a few weeks, I tried to give them a call; Jessica, for instance, didn’t pick up and lied via text that she had to visit her grandparents in Nevada. The rest—I thought it might have something to do with their schedule—searching for a new place to work and so on. When I decided to case the joint (they say it a lot in The Wire, so it must sound cool), I went to our spot without giving them any heads-up. Imagine my face when I saw them sitting there, at the same table drinking the same stuff; probably, discussing the same things. They were avoiding me. Goodness, were they jealous? How low and… it was disappointing and pretty freaking idiotic.

Fucking moronic, I nodded, gulping down another snifter. Ladies, pardon my French, or Swiss, to be more precise.

Brian joined me about an hour later and helped bottom me out of this misery. Not mine, but theirs, since I didn’t understand my friends. Some friends, right.

“Why don’t you grab something to eat instead of this stuff?” He pointed at the glass and at the area somewhere around my tummy.

“Envy, envy.” I rolled my eyes and we gave each other a warm hug.

I thought that Brian was alright. Just alright. I liked the guy; I liked my friend. He was a python dev that had been working for about a year, I thought, with all the future ahead of him. He told me someone threw a sock in the fireplace, and he decided he’d better make his leave lest it all “Goes to hells and bunnies.” We talked about work, and the time to spill stuff about my friends finally arrived. I felt a little mushy and weak and disoriented and oh so maudlin and moody I wanted to watch Bridget Jonses’s Diary, or Game of Thrones, for the fiftieth time. Brian was supportive and told me he understood.

“But do you?” I asked and tried to keep it together, however, I wasn’t seriously sad. Perhaps, I just needed to hear something bad about him. It sounds hideous, but it sometimes made me feel easier when someone else had it hard.

“Yeah, I can relate, Luc. Cheer up! Mark and I aren’t talking now, and this promo could have been a tad higher!” He ordered a margherita, and I winced.

“Hold on,” I said, having asked the bartender to pour me another one, while I leaned on the counter. “Are you dating someone? Didn’t know—”

I also wanted to ask him what promo he was referring to, but he cut me off. “Yep, the QA boy with a big earring. Remember? He works on the thing—does code for the AIB stuff.”

“Wait!” My eyes grew wide as I looked at my glass half-full. “He is actually…?”

“Yep.” Brian smiled a Devil’s smile and pinched the piercing in my noise. “Great kisser, that one.”

“I knew it! Good for you,” I said. Weird that I found out about it now, since I was sure he was a single wolf, just like me. “And what about that promo? I think you mentioned something like that.”

“Yep.” He licked the salt from the glass. “Senior with a mere few grand. Ridiculous!” I laughed along, but my smile faded, as I realized that I was still a mid with a wage summing up to just a few grand tops.

“Sorry, Brian… how much do you make?”

I wouldn’t have asked it, had I not had a lot of that McLane stuff warming my stomach. He sipped on his drink, looked out of the window at the part of the mountain reflecting this strange evening, and carefully wiped his mouth. He told me how much he made. It was as if a hard basketball hit my little head, or I woke up to see my beautiful hair was gone.

“Lucy, you fine in there?” He tilted and looked into my eyes.

“Yeah, great.”

Something got me down real bad real fast. Perhaps, it was the booze; perhaps I was just tired. He probably saw the expression I had and got up, patting me on the shoulder. I looked at his hand in surprise with a hint of rage brewing in my head; I have never been an angry person, but now I was ready to explode.

“I think I’ll go. Keep in touch, Luc,” he said, moving his senior ass away.

I was relieved he decided to go and realized just now that I hated when he called me “Luc”. I went to my room with a huge bed and opened the window to let a little of that fresh mountain air in. I breathed heavily and felt the toxic fumes escaping my mouth. Having washed off the makeup, I decided I was way too lazy to brush, wearing a goddam evening dress with my hair all puffed and curly. My reflection looked pretty, but I didn’t want to linger on it. When I got out of that tight dress, I sat on the chair with my legs up topless, wearing strings, overlooking the window, and thought about cigarettes that I hated. One wouldn’t hurt at that moment because there was something on my mind I couldn’t face. Worthless, lazy, petty, little tits—this stuff was riding through my mind, like a young cowboy dominates a peasant farm. Where did that come from? My vision blurred as I began to drift away, and that’s when it got cold, and I caught myself biting on my nails and thinking of my grey hairs.

I closed the window and went to bed, fully convinced that I was just drunk and exhausted.

3

When I woke up, everything was almost as I remembered yet it wasn’t the same anymore. I looked in the mirror while I was brushing my teeth and saw the drowsy eyes and a lot of grey hair; I thought I looked 10 years older. I went downstairs but I hated the thought of joining others over this local version of the continental breakfast where they served eggs and broccoli. I ate broccoli because I wished to stay slim and thought that no one in their right minds would eat these green turds lest they had a special type of strict nutrition plan, or gastritis.

I didn’t go to see anyone later, was in no mood to put the makeup on; even lied I’d be up in my suite reliving the worst hangover; not that anyone would miss seeing me anyway. I got out of my room later that day to go to that quiet place I’d spied that overlooked the same dull mountains by the window behind the local version Starbucks to try to compartmentalize. This was funny that my brain was desperately clinging on to everything not to start reminding me of the reason behind these fits. I collected my legs and rested my chin on the knee. Was Brian somehow better? I’ve kind of been there for much longer than he has, and it’s just barely fair. Remembering, though, I reflected: nightclubs, sushi, fancy cocktails, videogames, and this lack of enthusiasm—stagnation, right—pinned me down, because I realized that everything I’d been doing was simply dominating the hell out of the comfort zone I’d got comfortable with; like that hypothetical rustic cowboy that would have strong hands and a strong grip… These thoughts wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I returned to the real thing.

(grey hair, little tits)

I looked around and saw the busboy coursing through the people having a late lunch. I checked my watch and realized I came here in the morning. Oh gosh, it was lunch, so Brian should be around here somewhere. Somehow, it made me sick to imagine talking to him or being in his presence. I closed my Mac and finished the latte gone cold before I set out for an afternoon stroll.

I brushed my hair so that it wouldn’t look lush but it did, and I hated liking the violet it boasted; I actually disliked everything about myself at that point. This is where the brooding took hold of me, like a driver taming an old Chevvy they find in the dad’s garage. The whole vacation was ruined by a simple comment from someone whom I respected and loved. Did I, though? I couldn’t bring myself to believe I was an evil bitch to despise a guy for getting it done. But in just under a year! What I should have done! Oh, and I knew perfectly well he wasn’t especially enthusiastic about what he did, he got lucky and slipped through the cracks—he told me so himself—only to deny it in the company of others; he’d suck up to his superiors, pretending their kids or stupid rides they’d usually discuss; to be frank, neither was my job my true passion; it was easy, and it paid very well. Sometimes it brought me down realizing I was trading my life for the useless rut that was a good and stable supply of the green. I was so dependent on money, just like everyone else. I wanted to shout “Hypocrite” and claw at his face, because that’s what he was, that two-faced, survival-of-the-fittest, ass-licking kind of son of a bitch.

The cold air pinched my red cheeks, while the tips of the hair went frozen, all this to the magic of the northern winds breathing in the freshness of the winter spirit. It was difficult to breathe, but I kept walking, getting farther and farther away from the hotel… from everything.

I wasn’t evil, but what was it that came over me? Apparently, it was Brian’s success and his quaint perseverance I lacked, and the way how happy he must have felt when he told me about how much he made and all this life he could have with this much dough and that smirky fucking self-esteem that must have skyrocketed when he pulled those numbers in the paycheck. I wanted to weep for myself, while the depressing music shuddered the earplugs slowly dying to the cold.

I was furious and sad and ashamed for thinking that, at the same time being helpless to just escape and delete myself from existence; but there I was—alone with the cold and lonely wind. Nothing could have stopped me to have been as audacious and brainy; like him. God, he even had a date! He was better at everything! I realized it was happening inside my head, but I wondered what my mother would say to this.

Lucy, baby, you mustn’t think about this rubbish. Focus on yourself and what you yourself have achieved. You’re such a pretty young lass, so just push on, and you will get it done, girl.

Bizarre how real that voice played in my head. Then she’d probably ask me about grandkids and remind me she gave birth to me when she was younger.

Right, younger, I whispered, as the warm smoke escaped my lungs. How didn’t they realize that the figures weren’t the real issue? The thing was, I thought, that how much you make defines you: it tells the world what you’ve achieved and your worth; implying that you’ve worked hard for it. Just look at their faces for a few seconds right after they learn they make more than you do—that expression—and you’ll know what I mean.

I shivered, rubbing my ribs, and decided to return to my room; might even make it for dinner I didn’t want.

4

It had been a while since I returned to the city, and my head had been heavy. It seemed that I’d travelled through all the levels of hell, been going through the motions, they say. I’d bring my lunch with me in one of those plastic containers so as not to go to the kitchen where I’d have to talk to the people that are all better than I am; or I really had no clue what I meant but everyone looked better.

I had been feeling down and pathetic; helpless. There seemed to be no way of lifting that weight from my shoulders pressing me down into the mud of that self-inflicted sorrow. I thought I was losing my mind, lost my appetite. Somehow, I realized it had to be a fleeting moment of weakness. There would be occasional pep talks with those who could understand, but they all said the same thing: push and work; do something. Hadn’t I been doing all of that crap so far? Sometimes it seemed they thought I’d been idling, blaming everything but myself—partying and what not. I was certain it wasn’t true, but what if they were right? It seemed I just got stuck in the swamp, bogging me down, without a chance to break free and fly.

Damn that Brian… He’d stirred the hornet’s nest, bringing out the stuff in me that lay dormant in a hidey hole for too long; a whole bunch of stuff. But, yes, I felt ashamed and humiliated for wishing he’d just drop dead; ultimately, I’d admit later, it was just the reflection of myself that I hated every time I looked in the mirror.

He’d ask me if I was okay, and I’d just never miss the opportunity to hint how much he made and how successful he was. My friend was so supportive and always told me I had it in me to be better. Sometimes I’d mistake it for condescendence. How come did he have so much character to stand my attitude? In my defense, the advice they often gave was “Go find something you like or make more.” What an amazing thought and how easy it all sounds.

You’re sad! So don’t be sad!

Such a great fucking idea! How come didn’t I think of that?

One of the weekdays—might have been Wednesday, I don’t really remember—I picked the time to be the last to go to the kitchen because there was the coffee machine that could pull off the meanest latte. As I was opening the door, having come up with a good excuse, I saw no one inside, just the opened window with the car sounds coming from the street. I set up by the window and even managed to enjoy the hot drink for a while before reality pulled me back again. The coffee had gone cold—the cup was half-empty—and I somehow kept twisting my lips and hair, zoning out into the shining surface of the table. This is when a smiling cleaning lady came in. She said hello and asked me how I was, despite my obvious expression of complete oblivion. She made a swift move and wiped the tables, gracefully, singing quietly and… dancing, a little. She took out the trash and loaded the dish machine with the dirty leftovers. She was slightly overweight but her skin was quite fair and looked healthy; her eyes were dark and pretty even though her head was full of overlapping grey hairs, resting in a huge bunch, like a bird’s nest. Her threads looked worn and greasy, but the green Adidas trannies were spot on. I kept looking at her, realizing how happy she was. I had no clue whether she liked what she was doing, but I couldn’t help noticing she got so spooked when she saw a cup that was misplaced on the edge of the table and was upset to see the coffeemaker was running out of juice; she went all the way downstairs to replenish it. She was so happy; so content; so lifelike. I thought about what was going on inside my head, and suddenly wanted to throw up.

I had never seen them do it before, but the smiling lady offered to make me coffee before she left.

A few weeks later I resumed talking to them more or less—bottomed out a little bit. Why? Because when I stepped on the weights, I saw I’d lost a few pounds, and with my fly-weight it was next to critical. I cut my hair short but didn’t change the colour; there should be some apart from all those grey outside the window. The life had been creeping into me little by little because I’d found a path or thought I did. How do you find your way? Was I tired of being tired? I’d never had more ideas and plans than I did now and making something—changing—was empowering. I gave up partying and cut some of the people off that dragged me down; did more exercise and read a few books. Unbelievable how much strength hides inside when you are about to give up and let the ocean take you. All it took was one close look at myself; even though there was the same person standing in front of me, I didn’t recognize her, and that’s what mattered—that reflection belonged to me, not anyone else.

22.04.2022-27.04.2022