The Man in the Mirror

The Man in the Mirror

           He saw not himself in the mirror’s reflection but the man he was afraid he’d become. From the corner of the glass pane, he could see her stirring from her sleep, grasping at the empty space in the bed. A few years earlier he would still be laying down, holding her in his arms. The vicious cycle of womanizing had built up scar tissue over his compassion and left a cold spirit in its wake. What he lacked in empathy he made up for in dry wit. A fair trade he told himself, or perhaps he had slowly become an arrogant prick.

           He was not always this way, however. To the chagrin of his father, he established long-term monogamous relationships, rather one singular relationship he was so sure would last forever. His father had always warned him “you can plan a picnic, but you can’t predict the weather”. The weather did prove to be unpredictable, many picnics ruined.

           Love can make a man blind, or his father argued love made a man weak. For years his father was a drifter who appeared more infrequently than the Easter Bunny, only coming back when he needed a bed or money. Typically, one always accompanied the other. He felt a year-long absence could be excused with one trip to the bar where he could display his prowess of conning people. Best summarized, his father’s business was the hardest way to make an easy living. This lifestyle may have been romanticized in music and movies, but through a ten-year-old’s eyes, one too many drunken fights and nights sitting outside a Holiday Inn pool, he swore to himself he’d never repeat it. The moonlight glistened over the chlorine and through the warped reflection, he could imagine himself twenty-years older, far from any scummy bar scene with an actual wife, not one that cost a wad of cash to tell him she loved him. He would have a job where he would wear a suit every day, and an office that overlooked Madison Avenue like Don Draper. He would come home to a family that was genuinely excited for his presence, not a house he had to sneak through the back door and argue his way into the chance of sleeping on a futon. His drink of choice would be an Arnold Palmer, not a Whiskey Sour with an extra cherry.

           He continued to buckle his cufflinks, realizing the drink he knocked over earlier had stained his sleeve. Sighing, he removed the cufflinks and rolled his sleeves. In the darkness of the room, the bags under his eyes were hidden and the air of self-deprecation remained translucent. The lack of light made combing his hair impossible, so he quietly shuffled into the adjacent bathroom.

Flicking the light switch forced him to squint as he groped through his wallet for his trusty metal comb. Knifing the metal teeth through his hair was therapeutic, allowing him to imagine the days lounging on the beach with his love running her fingers over his scalp. As he opened his eyes, the sight brought about train tracks of goose bumps over his arms. Looking back was his father, a sly smirk hanging from the corner of his mouth. Trying to avoid following in his detestable footsteps had forced him too close to the sun. Quickly splashing water on his face, he forcefully slammed the lights off and returned to the bedroom. Grabbing his coat from the chair in the corner, he gave one last longing look to the cherub sprawled on the mattress. As much as he regretted disappearing in the middle of the night, leaving now allowed him to get a head start on the impending guilt.

           The wind had picked up considerably, with the temperatures dropping below comfortable for a casual walk. Light rain had begun to increase and freeze, transforming into a sleet. Cars cautiously moving by on the streets made their marks in the slush, and even a few offered a ride. He felt he deserved the punishment of Mother Nature, the precipitation building an added layer on his shoulders and frosting his hair. The amber glow of streetlights amplified how heavy the snow was now falling. In his younger years he had always romanticized living in a snow globe, now each flake reminded him of the ghosts he began piling up in his wake.

           Rubbing his hands together, fingers still numb, he fumbled trying to brandish his apartment’s key. Once inside his sanctuary, he could finally breathe in serene air. While he tried his best to maintain a cleanly living space, an open carton of milk was keeping an emptied box of Sugar Smacks company on the coffee table. An abundance of take-out napkins formed a pile in a broken napkin holder and empty bottles lined the counter, no room for them in the overflowing garbage can. He only owned a single set of plates; well, he had owned a set of four but that had since been reduced to two. The two plates conjoined with a bowl and a whisky glass in the sink, an impressive Jenga-like, modern art piece titled “Pathetic”. He removed his soaked coat, letting it drape off his shoulders and slink onto the tiled kitchen floor. Grabbing the half-opened bottle of Wild Turkey off the top of the fridge, he bypassed getting a glass and slumped into the far-right cushion on the couch. While taking his first sip, his cellphone rang. The number was not familiar, and while usually he would send unknown numbers to voicemail, he slid open the phone and placed it to his ear.

“Hey…. are you there? It’s Alice”.

           He hadn’t spoken to Alice in nearly a month and would have completely forgotten about her had there not been a chance encounter at the Thai restaurant.

           “Yeah Alice, I’m here. Why are you calling at . . . 2 am?”

           “I had to make sure . . . I’m pregnant”.

           She began trembling on the other end of the line and his grip loosened on the phone. Flashing images of the Bulls highlights on the T.V. became blurry, his mouth becoming cotton filled.

           “Say something dammit! And don’t ask how I know it’s yours. I don’t sleep around like you do.”

           When a creature is approached by a predator, an instinctual fight or flight kicks in and they react accordingly. He felt the strongest urge to immediately hang up the phone and begin packing a bag. He took a slug from the bottle and breathed heavy into the microphone.

           “Good luck sweetheart”

           Hanging up, his phone screen went black. The blank screen revealed the returning reflection of the man in the mirror. He was the man he was afraid he’d become.