The Mirror
By Poto

On the day you first touched the back of my neck with your hand you interrupted my train of thought. I began to write a poem, and I go back to it from time to time, switching from blank verse to rhyme just to keep you amused. Perhaps it is a love poem. Perhaps it is a murder mystery.

Perhaps today's instalment of the poem can begin with "you" instead of "I". Maybe I have learned that much.

I remember watching you get up one day, preparing to leave. I huddled under the blankets trying desperately to entice you back to bed. You refused - determined, resolute - and I did what was so hard for me, I pulled away from the warmth of the covers and walked to you, naked.

You were fixing your hair in front of the mirror. I stepped in behind you, our two framed reflections staring back at us. I flinched, afraid to be corrupted by what I saw in the glass. A different perspective to be had by the angle of the refraction of light.

You scowled, pulling me closer to you so that the fabric of your shirt scratched against my skin, making me keenly aware of my nudity. I could feel your longing, your itch, to pick up your lipstick and draw in my small mouth - to bring out the feminine side in me that I know so well that you love. I give glimpses, but never enough.

Sighing, you turned away from the mirror, tantalized, ultimately unfulfilled.

Perfume lingered, echoing you long after you had gone, descending the narrow staircase and rattling your keys in the door. I was struck by how wrong it felt to remain in somebody else's bed after they have left it. Like you become part of the residue that clings to the sheets or permeates the air.

I got up - still naked - and tried to imitate your pose in front of the mirror. You ran a hand through your luxurious straight hair. My hand snagged on the knots I can never banish from my curls. Perversely, I caressed the stray, discarded remnants of make-up. I know you keep your favourites with you, in the blue silk bag that stays in your fake leather purse.

The ritual continued. The mirror looked accusingly at a stranger, a grotesque copy of you, it's mistress. You the beauty, me the drag queen. Your glittery eyeshadow did nothing for my eyes, even though they are blue like yours. Or perhaps my shaky hands applied it all wrong. I feel I should be an expert, you are not the only lover I have watched.

Naked, lonely, dressed only in your favourite mask, I searched in vain for what you see when you look at me, and tried to understand what you see when you look at yourself.

Those women's self-awareness classes in the sixties advocated masturbation while holding a mirror between your legs. The rationale was that we cannot tell our lovers how to pleasure us if we do not know ourselves. We must not be afraid of our genitalia. We must not be coy. Challenge ourselves to challenge each other. Like walking hand in hand through the park luring the ducks, daring them to trust us, to take the scraps of bread from our fingertips.

I left the apartment, knowing you expected me to be there that evening. I called you. I remember we had an inane conversation about when you might be home, how stressful your day would be. What should we have for dinner? Will you bring wine? I would cook. A long day makes you hungry.

I arrived back at 4pm - turn my own hard won keys in the lock. I climbed the precarious stairs. I stripped off my clothes and walked to the mirror. I was still wearing your make-up. Tissues cleanse my mouth, my cheeks, my eyes. I fell asleep.

As you tickled me awake your amused grin took me back to that morning, when you had laughingly but firmly pushed away my groping hands and searching mouth. You stood in front of the mirror to remove your earrings, and replaced the one in the top of your ear carefully, the one you have to take out because you think it makes you look too butch at work. A singular sign of your after hours individuality. The tissues you used to remove your make-up joined mine in the bin.

I handed you your silk robe. You asked me not to dress, so you could feel me at any time, feel me close to you. I protested, it was cold, I was going to cook. You shrugged, and handed me my jeans.

I dragged you down to the kitchen. You sipped wine and told me more about your day, while I cooked chicken and didn't even bother to nod in the right places because you had always told me you were too sensible to fall for that. You didn't care.

I revel in what you know about me and what you don't. The past becomes now. The cold day ends. You touch the back of my neck and I shiver. I write another stanza of the poem before bed, but you are practically asleep before my mouth has even lifted from you. You mumble something about how alike we are as you drift off. I agree.

As I turn out the light, your mirror smiles contentedly at me.

THE END

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