Mirror Mirror

So about the last thing I expected to find at Walmart was a haunted mirror. I wouldn’t have even gone, but Molly broke all of my mirrors when we parted ways, only she screamed about me breaking her heart or something, but let’s be honest, that’s a little dramatic. I didn’t have to spend three hours carefully sweeping shards of heart off my apartment floor. Mirrors break – hearts don’t.

And the thing is, she knows how much those mirrors meant to me, and how much I detest screaming. It’s very unchill, my regimen is extremely demanding, and she knows how much I need my me-time. She knows all this and still did it to me, because – well, I don’t really want to say anything. I don’t like saying bad things about people, because bad things lead to bad thoughts, and bad thoughts lead to skin blemishes and baggy eyes, like Molly has. But if I’m being completely honest, sometimes she’s a bit of a B.

The problem is she’s self-centred instead of me-centred. She doesn’t listen, even when I give her good advice, like when I tell her to give up onions because her breath smells, or point out which of her dresses do make her look fat (hint: it’s all of them), or suggest which yogurts she should eat to clear up that greasy skin.

And in return she just yells at me. Honestly, I put a lot of work into me, so that she can go around bragging to her friends, “Look at that guy! That’s my guy! I’m the luckiest woman on earth.” Is it so much to ask she put in the bare minimum? Honestly, it’s no wonder the relationship didn’t work out. As I told her, “We’re just too different.” Honestly.

I think I’m too charitable.

Anyway, so I see this handsome hand mirror at Walmart. Now, I know what you’re thinking, the store isn’t renowned for its quality, right? Like, it’s all plastic handles and junk. But here’s the thing. I spend a lot of my time enriching my mind too, and that means I read philosophy. And I think it was Socrates that said, “Beauty is only skin deep.”

Right?

That’s deep. Like skin. And if Molly only took care of her skin, she could have been beautiful too. Anyway, what this means is that things that look beautiful, are. And this hand mirror, let me tell you, is one handsome customer, one dashing chap. 

Starless-night black plastic handle, burgundy felt backing – which totally looks like silk from a distance – and silver-ish highlights that absolutely resemble the real thing. I can think of no fewer than seventeen spots in my apartment where I can pose this mirror, and twelve more where we can pose together.

But then, get this. A mirror should resemble its owner, but it should also reflect its owner, so I pick it up. And what do I see?

A woman!

And I say “Whoa!” and so does she, only I can hear her voice and I’m pretty sure mirrors don’t reflect those.

“There’s a man in my mirror,” she says.

“I think you’ll find, there’s a woman in mine.” And worse, there’s no sign of my debonair reflection at all. Although, come to think of it, this woman is breathtaking. “Your skin is flawless.”

“Your smile, perfection,” she replies. She’s right of course, but it’s nice to hear someone say it. What a strange mirror this is. I wonder if I can get a discount.

“So tell me,” she says, “how did you die?”

“What?”

“How come you’re haunting my mirror?”

“No,” I say. “No no. You’re the ghost.”

“I beg to differ. I’m much too pretty to be dead.”

“True,” I say. I run my hand down the mirror’s frame, and so does she. Her nails are in excellent condition. “That would be an unforgivable loss.” She treats me to a smile as charming as my own. “Aphrodite.”

“Adonis,” she whispers back.

For a moment, we’re lost in the gentle tunes popping from the third-rate speakers in the store. We raise our mirrors to eye-level and then spin, dancing like we were the only two people in the world – which we might as well be. I can’t even remember Melissa or Mimsy or whatever her name was.

But then I see something odd over the mirror woman’s shoulder. She’s in the store just as I am, but there’s a big banner hanging from the ceiling, proudly bearing the store’s logo – and it’s red.

“Why’s that banner red?” I ask. “Is there a sale where you are?”

She looks behind her. “No. That’s just a regular Walmart banner. Surely you know red is their colour.”

“Surely I don’t. They’re blue and always have been.”

“Oh,” she says, with an exquisitely calculated raising of her brow. “How garish. What a backwards place you live in.”

I resist scowling, because scowling causes wrinkles. “Well,” I say, “backwards for you, and you being backwards, makes it forwards.”

She sniffs. “Bold words, from a man in a mirror.”

“Except I’m not.”

“But you are.”

“No, it’s you. Anyway.”

“Anyway. You.”

“Anyway!”

We turn away from each other. I feel… a hint of irritation. Is this our first fight? She’s so gorgeous, I don’t want to risk losing her. She could be the one, even if she very clearly lives in a mirror.

“I think,” I say, “we’ve gotten off to a poor start.”

“Yes. It would be tragic to lose something beautiful over a silly misunderstanding.”

Yes, she gets me. I smile and she smiles back. Her smile makes me smile more, and my smile makes everyone smile more, because my smile is art. But I must admit, hers is too, in a post-modern kind of way. Yes, she’s the one, I just know it. Let’s do this properly.

I resist clearing my throat, because that’s an ugly thing to do, done by people with ugly throats. Instead, I jump right into it. “My name’s Sam.”

She gasps.

Well, I suppose anyone can make a mistake, and maybe the gasp was even a little adorable. Oh, look at me, rushing to her defense like a knight or something! I am so smitten. Anyway.

“My name’s Sam,” she says.

Well now, what are the odds? It’s a beautiful name though, fitting two beautiful people. I wonder what our cute couple name would be?

Probably just Sam.

“Sam Walmsley,” she adds.

Now I gasp – although when I do it it’s less adorable and more projects a masculine aura of ruggedness – because, “That’s my name!”

And then I’m speechless, and so is she. We just look at each other for a moment, and I fear whatever magic I felt a moment ago is quickly vanishing, like trying to hold onto smoke.

“So you’re me,” I say.

“And you’re me. Only, somehow, backwards.”

“Reversed, as it were.”

“Opposite. A figment of some bizarre mirror world.”

I nod. I feel a dull pain in my chest, and – oh! Maybe Melinda was right. Maybe hearts can break. It’s an unpleasant sensation, but curiously, I also don’t feel inclined to smash a bunch of mirrors for no reason, so that still seems like an overreaction.

“You know, it’s funny,” I say. “This reminds me of something Johnny Derner once emailed me.”

“Yeah, I think I know what you’re talking about. Only it was Jeanine Derner, and she told me in person.”

“Well, it was Johnny and an email–”

“–only it wasn’t, because it was Jeanine–”

“–Anyway.”

What an irritating person. Anyway. “It’s that old riddle Socrates posed. You run into a clone of yourself. What do you do? Kiss or kill?”

“Or eat, right,” she says. “Yeah, I remember.”

“What do you mean, or eat!? That’s not part of it!”

“Yes, it is. Always has been. And it was Plato.”

“That’s absurd! Maybe that’s the way you backwards people do it in your weird mirror world.”

“Yours is the weird mirror world! Who shops in a blue store? It’s gaudy.”

She huffs. I huff. Honestly, the names might just be a coincidence, because there’s no way there’s a version of me out there that’s this frustrating. When I check my watch I see it’s getting late – oh! And look at that, she checks hers too. Who does that? Middle of a conversation with someone and she checks the time. I feel very disrespected right now.

“Well?” she says. Her voice has gone kind of flat. “On three?”

“Fine.”

“Three,” we mumble together, then, “two, one.”

“Kill,” we both say.

“Fine,” I say. “Fine.”

“Fair enough,” she says. “Probably a good place to part ways.”

“Yeah, I think so.” I put the mirror back and see her do the same.

What a B. What an insufferable B.

The mirror’s obviously busted and I could definitely get a discount for it, but honestly I’m done with it. The plastic handle feels weird and the fake-silver is poorly painted, upon closer inspection. I feel like there’s a lesson in all of this, and I sincerely hope for her sake that she learned it.

I grab one of the other mirrors, confirm there’s no one in it but yours truly – ah, there’s that dashing smile! – and head off to the registers.