A Study of Reflection

I turned towards the door a moment before it was pushed open. A young man stumbled in, staring furiously at the phone in his hands. My eyes followed him as he wandered through the pub, pulling off his beanie, scarf, gloves and finally coat as he took a seat at the bar in a huff. He flipped his phone face down and put his head in his arms.

“A shot. Of anything. Please,” he mumbled. I snorted slightly and grabbed a pint glass.

“How about something a little lighter.” I put a pint of apple cider in front of him. It was a particularly pleasant batch this time - bright and sweet. He sighed deeply, lifted his head up and took a long drink.

He straightened in the chair as he put the glass back down. Some of the fog was clearing from his eyes, and I could almost see the warmth travelling down his throat and into his abdomen.

“Wow. I’ve never had cider like this before!” he exclaimed. “Wow…” He took another sip and looked at me over the rim of the glass.

I smiled. “I thought you’d like it.”

He stayed at the bar for about an hour, and had one more drink. He asked for the same cider. He took two phone calls, and ignored two others. We spoke about his job (“Infuriating.”), his girlfriend (“I think she’s seeing someone else.”) and his sister (“She’s starting at MIT in the summer, I still can’t believe how smart she is.”). After he finished his second drink, he stood up and began to put his winter layers back on, and then put a 20$ note on the bar. I pushed it back towards him.

“This one’s on me.”

“I’ll be back,” he promised warmly, shaking my hand before putting his glove on.

I caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window beside the door as he walked past - and saw the same young man, maybe 200 years ago, biting into a ripe apple in his orchard.

People find my bar when they need to. Usually they’re looking for something - direction, inspiration, advice. And they’re met with a reflection of their past life in the window beside the door, and me, the bartender who can read the pattern of reincarnation. The opportunity to learn from your history can be invaluable if you choose to embrace it - a chance to correct the mistakes and misfortunes, or once again experience a great happiness.

I put down the glass and cloth in my hands as the door is pushed open for the second time tonight. A woman walks in, glances around the mostly empty pub until her eyes land on the man who had walked in about ten minutes earlier. Her face lights up in a radiant smile, matching his.

The window behind her shimmers to show a tragic scene of lovers separated by country and war. They were kept apart by circumstance, and their stories never again intersected in that lifetime.

She almost skips over to the table, sitting opposite him and grabbing his hands tightly.

I carry over two glasses of sparkling wine. They were a little more full than they ought to be, but this moment felt like a celebration. The couple turned towards me as I lit the candle on the table between them, their faces warmly aglow.

“Thank you!” the woman exclaimed.

“How… We haven’t ordered anything yet-” the man started, but was already reaching for his glass.

“Just a hunch,” I replied with a grin.

I heard their glasses clink as I walked away.

My family had been running this pub for a long time. My father fancied himself a mixologist before his time, and started trying to find the ‘perfect drink’ for every patron who wandered in. Some of his creations were disastrous (particularly the ones he decided needed to be on fire), but some had the incredible effect of eliciting memory. Sometimes this meant creating a new, pivotal memory, and sometimes it meant evoking a memory long forgotten. I was doing my best to hone his art.

A woman opened the door and rushed over to the bar.

“Do you have a bathroom I could use?” she asked urgently, almost hopping from foot to foot.

“Just over there,” I pointed.

“Thank you,” she yelled breathlessly, already halfway across the room. I laughed as I turned on the kettle.

A cup of gentle ginger and rose tea was waiting for her a few minutes later.

“Thank you so much,” she repeated, leaning against the bar. “Ever since I got pregnant, I’m constantly searching for a bathroom.”

“The tea is yours,” I replied with a smile. Her mouth turned into a surprised oh as she reached for the cup. A tentative taste turned into a smile and a bigger sip.

“This is amazing,” she observed, clutching the warm cup in both hands.

“I’m glad you like it. Someone told me it could be helpful for nausea.” I pushed the box of tea leaves towards her. “Come back next time you need a bathroom and report back on the tea.”

She laughed, a joyous ring.

She finished the tea in between stories of her shopping-for-baby-stuff adventures, making me laugh.

She paused at the door before leaving, and the window behind her was filled with the story of a young woman who desperately wanted a child but was unable to have one.

She waved to me with the box of tea leaves in one hand, the other on her pregnant belly.

Occasionally, someone would notice their strange reflection in my window. Occasionally they asked me about it - Is it like a trick mirror? Is it like the mirror from Harry Potter? Occasionally they would believe me when I told them it was a peek into their past life. But most of the time, people walked straight past themselves.

An older gentleman slowly wandered in, glancing at the window beside the door as he entered and not taking much notice. He was almost exactly reflected in the glass, except for the clothes he wore. His dark expression and isolation radiated between his lifetimes. He weaved between tables before pulling himself onto a barstool.

“Beer,” he said gruffly.

I didn’t pour him one. He already seemed drunk, and disgruntled. I filled a glass with water instead.

“This isn’t what I asked for,” he yelled, coughing in between words.

“Just start with this,” I insisted. He ignored me, trying to lean over the bar to the beer tap. “You can’t do that!”

“Oh, fuck off,” he muttered, leaning further over. His reaching hands pushed three glasses crashing to the floor. Glass shattered everywhere, and he sat back in his seat. The sudden noise seemed to have sobered him slightly, startling him into stillness. He took a messy gulp of water, droplets trickling from the side of his mouth into his beard.

“Sorry…” he mumbled. “I didn’t… mean to…” He slid off the chair and dazedly walked to the door. He glared at his reflected incarnation, and was met with identical accusing eyes. He stumbled out the door.

I sighed and began to sweep up the broken glass. Often, history repeated itself. I hoped he would find me again, and I could offer him a different drink.

I had, of course, seen my own reflection in the window. I had spent hours trying to figure out who I had been, but all I could see was myself, surrounded by fog, waiting for something, someone, to find me. I told myself to wait and let life play out - it was a taste of my own bitter medicine, the advice I had been presenting to others for years.

The door opened for the 15th time that evening. I almost groaned. All the guests this evening had been difficult - between the sisters who had argued for an hour and a young man who seemed determined to drown his sorrows and loudly lament, I had no patience left.

I turned around and opened my mouth to tell them we were closed, but my words were lost.

A woman stood next to the door, back to me and staring into the window. She waved sweetly to herself in the reflection, then reapplied her lipstick. Beside her in her reflection, I saw myself. She turned and winked at me, smiling as my eyes widened.

She walked to the bar and took a seat. Her smile grew, and slowly mine echoed.

“I’ve been looking for you.”