roken Reflecting Glass

The blinking reflection in the mirror is meaningless and unremarkable. Empty eyes, limp auburn hair, soft cheeks, a gentle sprinkle of freckles, scars from a playground accident many years before, a little nose, and deep-set green eyes are not the features of a muse providing inspiration to the scribbling pen of an artist. The reflection is wide, and takes up most of the mirror that hangs above the sink. Nothing can be done to shrink it to a more acceptable shape. It is fading. Slowly it vanishes from what is important and becomes nothing more than an outline. Year by year, the features alter and disappear, moving to an extinct world that no one can access without heavy machinery and time. The good things are locked deep inside—hidden, scared, alone. Only the bad parts remain. And although there is nothing substantial there, the reflection still blinks with unshed tears that eventually drip from mascara-covered lashes. The drips trace black lines down an otherwise unblemished surface and the process of perfection begins again with the wipe of a tissue and the reapplication of beige powder from an almost-empty compact.

She stops looking in the mirror.

She sees her lips, her cheeks, and her eyes to reapply makeup, but doesn’t look beyond those safe locations. She limits herself to what she’s allowed to see—any more will bring more tears, and if she takes the time focusing on the whole reflection she’ll see something unacceptable, something she won’t be able to change in the five minutes she has before she needs to leave. She’s tried this before; she fails each time.

She brushes her hair with her eyes closed and tries to think of things that will unknot the twisted, churning bundles in her stomach—shopping, spooning, sipping milkshakes, soft kisses from her lover. The last makes her heart flutter; her body feels light until she opens her eyes and inadvertently sees the reflection again. It blinks, unmoving, pathetic, barely tolerable.

“Fuck it,” she grumbles, throwing her brush into the basin of the sink. She watches as the brown handle and black bristles dance and spin before settling under the perpetually dripping faucet. The reflection shakes its head, its lips move, speaking timidly: “It doesn’t matter.”

She flips out the light and feels some of the knots loosen as darkness envelops her. Behind her she hears cartoons and the rustle of sheets.

“Did I just hear you say fuck it?”

His voice, deep and rumbling, comes from their bed. He’s still naked, sheets tossed about, only a corner covers him. The room is still hot and heady smelling. The memory of their night and morning brings familiar pulses to her body; she feels twinges of happiness pushing through the dreadful darkness that has consumed her thoughts for the last few hours. Muted cartoons dance color across the darkened bedroom walls—he’s watching Smurfs. He holds the remote control against his bare chest, and with his other hand he pats the mattress beside him. It’s a beckoning gesture that successfully draws her close. He eyes, alight with mirth and compassion, narrow with a teasing glint.

In his deep, still asleep voice, he murmurs: “Say it again, Babe.”

Her cheeks flame.

She slips her arms into the sleeves of her cardigan and watches him lie there waiting, with excited eyes, for her to curse again. She looks away and smiles as he laughs. Tossing the remote to the side, he twists the sheet around his waist and crawls across the bed toward her. She is curious about his modesty; he usually doesn’t care. He will tear off his shirt and pants and walk around in the clothing God gave him, free and uninhibited, completely alive. Everything she wants to be.

He grabs ahold of the pocket of her jeans and draws her to him with little effort. She sits on the bed and closes her eyes as his arms move around her soft body. This is where she is safe: In his arms, a fortress of indestructible beams there to support her pre-existing barricades of Kevlar. There she is never in want for anything.

His lips—wet, warm, seeking—touch her skin. His hand moves under her shirt and stills against her belly. It took a year of tug-of-war, a year of having the lights off and the cracks in the blinds taped to keep light out, before he could do this without her squirming. Now, his fingers press her flesh and she leans back against him as her arms hug his thigh that presses her side. Now, as she’s in his arms, she doesn’t care how she looks.

“So, let’s role play—tell me what you’re going to say.” His words are separated with light kisses that fan across her shoulder, throat, jaw, cheek, and ear. And although she is content, the comfort of his arms slips and the knots in her belly tighten. What will she say? His kisses, still traveling along every inch of skin he can find, fail to assuage the sudden rebirth of bundled, nauseating nerves. He senses this and stops kissing; his arms and legs wind about and squeeze her flush to his body. She can feel his heart racing. She can feel the lift and fall of his chest as he breathes in the scent of her hair.

“What will you say?” he asks.

“That I can’t do this anymore,” she says. “I can’t be the perfect person she wants me to be, and if that’s not good enough for her she can…”

“Go fuck herself,” he says with passion.

Blood expands across her entire face and she nods and laughs. “Yeah, I’ll say that.”

The clock on the wall reads a quarter past eleven. She watches the second hand slowly tick around the numbers; her eyes falter and she sees the second hand jerk in the opposite direction, as if someone had reversed a single moment in time just for her. She waits for the hand to move back again—it doesn’t. It ticks on and time vanishes. Soon it’s nearly noon; she’ll be late if she doesn’t leave now.

“Want me to go with you?” He asks again.

Since she told him about this weekly meeting several months ago he has volunteered to be at her side. To be her soldier and protector—her little push of confidence. She’s always refused. She has to go alone; besides, at this point he has only heard her stories of the endless torment, impractical demands, and disappointment. She doesn’t want him to see reality. She wants to hide him; keep him safe and sound in their dark room, untouched by the evilness outside. In this room, he is hers. Here, there is nothing wrong with him.

“Em?”

She blinks and turns to the deep vibrations of his voice.

“I’ll come if you want.”

“No,” she peels herself from the warmth of his chest and grabs her purse. “I have to do this alone or it doesn’t count.”

As she stands, he flops back onto the bed with a heavy sigh and stares at the ceiling. Gone is his smile, gone is the light teasing nature of a man stated and satisfied. His brow wrinkles, his lips press together, and his fingers restlessly open and close the battery compartment of the remote. She bends down and grasps his big toe poking out from the sheet. His brown eyes meet hers, and unlike her he doesn’t hide what he feels—his look holds determined fury, unconditional love, and defiance.

“I’m coming.”

“No,” she tries to make the word as firm as possible, but sees that she’s failing at being assertive. “It’s okay, I’ll be fine.”

She presses a knee to the mattress, leans down, and kisses him soundly, and before he can tug her back to the well-worn mattress, she draws back and leaves the room. He calls to her—tells her he loves her. She holds those words close and steps out into the bright mid-morning light.

She ruins her coffee. At least that’s what he always tells her.

She prepares it with a generous helping of Half-n-Half, four Sweet & Low packets, and a sprinkle of cane sugar. It’s the only way she can drink the stuff and not grimace from its bitter taste. He always tells her to get hot chocolate instead—says that she wastes perfectly good coffee, fucking it up with all that shit—but she likes drinking the same drink as him. She feels even more connected to him that way, which is why she orders a medium coffee when she arrives at the café a few minutes early. Coffee keeps her connected and grounded—focused on what she’s come here to do.

She pours the creamer and smiles—she can almost hear him sigh, see him shake his head, muttering: what a waste. The creamer sinks to the bottom and slowly bubbles up; it swirls in lacy white ribbons from the heat of the coffee. Four sugar packets later, she picks up a wooden stirring stick and watches the mixture turn to a light tan color with each flick of her wrist. She only has a moment to savor her concoction before her small table is consumed by a wave of Chanel No. 5, shopping bags, and an exasperated presence.

She forgets her perfectly-prepared cup of coffee and shrinks down trying to make herself smaller than she will ever be.

“This is a horrible place; I don’t know why you always pick it, Emily.”

No hello.

No hug—not that there were ever any hugs to begin with.

No small talk or other conversation common, and appropriate, between friends, acquaintances and even family, is exchanged. Instead, they fall into their normal Friday afternoon routine. They sit across from each other, joined at the four-person table by shopping bags from expensive boutiques and stores. The bags are situated so that even a brave soul wouldn’t even dare attempt to steal them. Complaints—of any nature—are spoken freely before there is a long, uncomfortable break of silence in which they sip their respective drinks and stare at anything but one another.

“So… how are you?” Emily asks as she sips her sugary coffee.

The response is a loud, exaggerated sigh followed by a long, overly-detailed explanation of her day shopping and life in general. The first ten minutes of their meetings are full of generally safe topics: updates on Frank, Lisa, Coby, and John; what’s happening at the club; and gossip. Then things change. She grows silent and looks around the little café with contempt; soon those disapproving eyes turn to Emily. After a moment of quiet, intense reflection, she shakes her head, lifts her sperm-shaped eyebrows, steeples her fingers, and directs the conversation onto a familiar, scary, and humiliating road. A road that Emily has tried to avoid for the length of their relationship.

“How are you, Emily?” She asks.

“Good… real good.” If anyone can detect the high-pitched notes of fall assurance, it’s not the woman sitting before her. “Things are good.” Emily stirs her coffee, presses her palms to the hot paper sides, and shifts restlessly. “Um, Ben says hi and sends his love.”

One sperm eyebrow shoots up to the middle of her forehead, she snorts, and shakes her head with that disappointed air that she always has. She doesn’t understand what Emily sees in Ben—he’s been the topic of several conversations. Instead of her usual comments on his lack of ambition, she sips her coffee, sets it down with a heavy thunk, and changes the subject. Emily feels herself on that bumpy road—full of potholes, sharp turns, broke guard rails, and blind driveways. She tries to hold on, but her seatbelt is long broken and the airbags deflated.

“Did you get that email I sent you?”

She always gets straight to the point. She never minces words and is impatient for an answer. The other sperm jerks up to match the first, and are now pasted evenly across her forehead, pulled together in an interesting wavy unibrow. Emily stares at them despite herself—who really shapes their eyebrows to look like little sperm? She can’t look away. She smiles beneath her palm. And this moment of laughter—of freedom—keeps her grounded and refocuses her attention on her goal for this particular conversation. Enough was enough.

“I did get that email,” Emily says knowing that it’s now or never. This is the perfect place and time to say or do something to get the emails, comments, and conversations to stop once and for all. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

“I’ve heard he’s all the rage, you haven’t called him? You really need to do something Emily. Do you know that I saw Jessica Westcott yesterday? She is positively obese—” when she says this word she shrinks down, eyes the area for fat people, squints her black-lined eyelids, frowns, and whispers as if it is the most obscene, taboo word known to man “—she’s gained like, twenty pounds.”

“Oh, really?”

Emily’s not interested in Jessica Westcott. and she’s not interested in talking about the contact information for the personal trainer. She’s not interested in anything regarding weight loss or perfection—not anymore. This topic of conversation has haunted her for years, a constant reminder that she’s just not good enough. She sits back, grips her coffee cup, and stares at the reflection bouncing back at her in the side of the metal napkin dispenser between them. The reflection is worse than before and suddenly she feels very, very tired.

“I need to talk to you,” she finally says, interrupting a comment about Jessica not being able to shop for cute panties now that she’s super obese—not just obese, but super-duper obese. The sperm are angled downward in disapproval, but that doesn’t stop Emily. “I want to talk to you about that email—I don’t want emails like that anymore. I don’t care about it anymore—about you constantly trying to change me. I’m… sorry that I’m not good enough for you to—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Emily!” she cries. “Not this again.”

“Well you don’t listen!” Her voice rises despite her effort to remain in control and private; others are looking at them. She feels her throat tighten. “You never listen to me and we go round and round again with this stuff and I’m tired of it. I’m sorry that I’m not as perfect as Lisa, or as smart as John and Coby, but I’m… I’m fine just as I am. I want you to just leave—”

“That’s what what-his-name, your boyfriend, told you to get you to sleep with him.”

Emily sits back as if she’s been slapped. She’s heard this before, it’s not new, but it still hurts. It still stings every inch of her body.

“His name is Ben, he is my fiancé, and that is not what happened… and… and….”

“Emily, listen to me,” she interrupts yet again and stares with imploring eyes, “anyone who truly cares—like me—would let you know that you’re not where you could be,” she does her best at trying to look compassionate, but Emily stopped believing that there was good in this woman a long time ago. “You have potential and such a beautiful face.”

Emily tries to respond but feels flustered, which isn’t uncommon at this point of the conversation. She was progressing fine until the comments about Ben—her rock. At that moment, Emily’s resolve and determination disappeared as her heart clenched. She believed—though she knew it to be untrue—that he had said all those nice things, complemented her, and loved her, only for the benefits of their relationship. And then, just as quickly, she felt horrible for doubting him, his love, and her own feelings. Now, she tries to pull back the conversation to what she’s there to say, but it is impossible—it’s always impossible.

Again that look of faux-compassion is back. “If I don’t tell you these things who will? Isn’t it my job to make sure you’re the best you can be? Isn’t it my job to let you know when I think you’re doing something to hurt yourself? To hurt your chances at happiness?”

“No, Mom,” Emily mumbles, “it’s not your job.”

They sit silently for the next fifteen minutes. Emily stares into her full cup of coffee, now luke-warm on her palms, while her mother rubs her sperm eyebrows and taps her Solar nails against the table. Emily keeps her eyes away from the napkin dispenser—she doesn’t want to see the shameful tears that press against the brim of her eyelashes but do not fall. A moment passes before she hears a sniffle and sees her mother dabbing the corners of her watering eyes with a napkin.

“I’m just trying to be helpful!” she wails. “You make me sound like a horrible beast.”

Emily leans forward and presses her hand to her mother’s. “I just… I’m fine, Mom, honestly. I’m happy! I want you to believe that I’m happy.”

“But, how can you be when you’re so—”

The “word” dies in midair. Emily releases her mother’s cool fingers and shrugs her shoulder, dejected and distracted, she says: “I just am, okay.”

“But you’d be so much happier if…”

“Can we not talk about this anymore?” she’s fed up and near a humiliating breakdown. She wishes she’d never tried to have this conversation. She knew it wasn’t going to work—that it was pointless. “I just want you to stop emailing me tips and tricks for thinness—I have those books you gave me. And please, no more about personal trainers. Please?” She hates begging, but it always comes to this. Always.

“Fine… fine,” she brushes her hands as if she’s done with the conversation.

Again they sit in silence that seems to stretch on and on. Emily finishes her coffee; her mother clicks her nails and complains that she has coffee grounds in the bottom of her mug. It’s almost time for them to separate, until next week, when the same conversations, despite what was said today, will happen again. There is no hope for change, Emily knows this.

“Oh, I bought you a shirt,” her mother says as she stands to leave. She makes a scene digging through her bags, pulling high-priced items out, waving things in the air, talking about sales and how she spent so much money! Finally, she hands Emily a clothing box from Macy’s. A spark of excitement fills Emily’s chest, just like always. She smiles at her mother and opens the box. Inside, wrapped in pink tissue, is a green blouse—size six. She rubs her mouth hard, but her lips and chin still tremble.

She tries to speak in a clear voice, but her words wobble. “I wear a twelve.”

“Oh, I know—just think of this little thing as motivation!” Her mother beams.

Emily can’t find it in herself to feel disappointed, hurt, or neglected, feelings that always run rampant when in her mother’s presence. Instead of anger, or any other normal response to such rude behavior, she just feels exhausted. She’s become a shell of herself, struggling to breathe, to move, to live. She closes the box and manages a small smile as a cool, quick kiss is pressed to her cheek. Her mother gathers the shopping bags, and flutters about the table leaving a scent trail from her expensive perfume. Before she steps away, she pauses and stares down at her daughter. Green eyes meet green eyes, pale cheeks match pale cheeks, auburn hair matches auburn hair, and freckles seem strategically, majestically placed as if they were a cloned copies—blueprinted in DNA. Emily’s mother is beautiful and radiant, full of energy and life, renewed by her cup of coffee and the conversation.

She picks up a strand of Emily’s hair and rubs it between her fingers: “You should use a de-frizzing product, honey.”

Emily waves two fingers in salutation and watches her mother leave. Her heart thuds thick and heavy; her eyes burn with a fierce sting that starts in the corners and slowly spreads. She closes her eyes and presses her fingers until she sees red. Tears, which are inevitable in the face of failure and humiliation, come despite her efforts to control her physiology.

His voice comes from behind her: “You ruined your coffee.”

Seeing him makes things worse. She slaps her hands to her face and moans, and when she looks up, catching her reflection, she shoves the napkin holder to the floor. It bangs and clatters, stopping to rest at the foot of some man who had probably listened to every word that was said over the span of the last twenty minutes. If anyone looks up at this disruption she doesn’t see and doesn’t care.

He touches her shoulder before bending down to pick up the dispenser. He sets it on the chair her mother had been in, and then sits beside her. He places his coffee on the table and loops his arms around her middle. Instincts cause her to flinch, to jerk, to push him away. He’s used to this. He holds her despite the reaction and presses his chin to her shoulder. It takes a minute, but she finally relaxes and cries freely, without shame. She can smell him through the heavy aroma of coffee and baked goods. He smells earthy like the woods on a cold day, heady like sweat, and spicy, likely due to the old cologne that lingers on the dirty shirt he pulled on before leaving their apartment to follow her here.

“How long?” she asks.

“I watched you ruin your coffee.” He while running his fingers through her hair. “So, that was her, huh?”

She wipes her wet cheeks and moans: “Why are you here? I told you I could do it alone—don’t you trust me? Don’t you think I’m strong enough? Don’t you think I’m good enough to do it right and make it final?”

He’s quiet for a moment. He stops playing with her hair but doesn’t take his hands away from her body.

“I came because I had to.”

“I screwed everything up,” she says as more tears fall, “I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You are strong enough—you know what to say, Em. You’ve got to just say it.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “But I can’t say it…. It’s always been this way; it’s never going to change. I guess I need to find new ways to deal.”

“Or you can tell her what’s really on your mind,” he says with encouragement. “Just say it. Say it!”

She looks at him, feeds off the intensity of his eyes, the passion behind his words, and smiles and laughs.

“Fuck it,” she says realizing that she isn’t as convincing as he is.

“Yes, say that next time!” He’s never looked more pleased in the entire time she’s known him. He cups her cheeks between his palms, kisses her without shame, kisses her despite the hoots and whistles around them. He kisses her like a man striving to make things just right. His mouth travels down her salty cheek and pauses at the corner of her lips. He breathes in deep and sighs; his breath is hot and rushes down her neck causing her entire body to flush. She leans closer.

“So, you’ll say that next time?”

Her smile is weak, but she nods: “Sure, I’ll say it next time.”

Despite having a game plan for the next conversation and the one after that, Emily doesn’t feel better. She looks away when he replaces the napkin dispenser on the table and stands when he gestures toward the exit. He takes her hand in his and leads her across the street to their apartment. The moment they are closed inside, he tugs off his clothes and dives, splendidly naked, into their bed. She doesn’t join him. She moves into the bathroom and flicks on the light.

“Em.”

She hears the warning in his voice and closes the bathroom door so he can’t see her; she twists the knob to lock it. Pressing her palms to the cool vanity, she leans in close, nose inches from the glass, and stares. Her eyes cross, her freckles magnify, her scars become clear. She touches her jaw, feels the loose skin on her neck, touches her soft middle, twists to view her hips, and sucks in her gut. She picks up her brush and runs the damp bristles through her non-frizzy hair. She brushes and brushes and brushes and stares at the nothingness before her. A knock at the door returns her focus. She sets the brush down and really looks at the reflection in the mirror.

“Next time,” she promises it, “next time I’ll be stronger.”

Still staring into the mirror, she reaches behind her, flicks the light switch down and watches the darkness until he knocks again. She opens the door and looks into his eyes; she doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he’s naked and ready, and he doesn’t push. He’s used to this routine and knows he won’t be touching her for a few days. He just wants her out of the bathroom. She emerges from the dark, takes his hand, and follows him to the bed.

They lie together and watch cartoons. And every time the TV screen fades to black between scenes and commercials she closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see her reflection.

A/N: Here's a short story that I wrote today for class on Monday. I'm interested to hear what you think. How could I make it better? Anything missing? Help me out! Thanks for any comments!

P.S. To all Jade Bracelet readers: I'm really sorry for slacking on that story. Grad school is going to keep me pretty busy. I hope to update periodically, but I might not be able to.