Reflections

A woman looks at a mirror and sees herself, doesn't she?

Most species treat their reflections as strangers to be courted or attacked. Only a handful of animals are aware of their reflections. These include elephants, orcas and bonobos. We can probably add humans to that list…Or can we?

Since they lifted me from my box, my life has been simple. Not in the details - details are never simple - but in general. The same pastel pink walls, thin glass window, and king-size bed have consumed my line of sight. The cat has spent days lying behind me, purring herself in and out of sleep. I've watched the banana plant grow and wither and felt music vibrate through the floorboards. 

I've seen my share of faces: pink and red, bronze and caramel. Although two have come to me more than any others. His is taut and square; hers is calm and oval. Some I've seen enough times to know, but most I wouldn't be able to recognise with a list of prompts. I only recall those distant faces from what they made me feel. Some were warm and innocent, and more were cold and wounded. But they all saw something different from what was there. Not once has someone looked at me and seen the truth. 

A woman looks at a mirror and sees herself, doesn't she? I'm starting to doubt that. She's too clever for her own good, with the mental dexterity to paint whatever picture she wants to see. For her, a mirror doesn't provide a reflection but an empty canvas. What she paints depends on the day, what she has put in her body or what she's allowed herself to think. Somedays, she gives herself a roller and a bucket of black paint. On others, she allows herself a selection of watercolours and a finely tipped brush. I prefer a canvas filled with colour. But more often than not, I find myself staring at black rectangles. 

Only recently did I discover how widespread your lies are - it's as if you are all in on it together. Last week, my usual view was swapped for blue skies, green canopies, pecking birds and waves of people. In the beginning, when a swell came towards me, I'd feel confident one or two would stop and paint a picture. It happened regularly in my usual spot, so why shouldn't it here? I braced myself for them, standing straight. But then they would all pass without giving me a second glance. They'll steal glimpses for themselves - tuck a loose strand of hair behind their ear and move on. Or the opposite. A rare few were enthralled to find me standing on that corner. Their eyes widened, and they ran over to me - as two good friends might after months apart. Even with these people, my interactions weren't the same as they were inside. These glimpses were performances. They lean close, spin on their heels, hold their chins high, scream, laugh and pout. These are the portrait artists of the world. Casting shadows and smoothing shapes until the perfect image is captured. Or what they imagine is perfect. And they aren't happy with the painting itself. They need an audience. Even if that audience is just waves of strangers walking by. 

For weeks, I wondered what brought on this fit of exhibitionism. Was it myself, the sunny weather, the crowds? But I'm not sure it's any of it - instead, it's everything. It's the quaintness of all those things. People lose their logic when confronted with novelty. Some recede, avoiding the anomaly at all costs. Others - the performers - are drawn to it. 

I surmised a lot about your kind after standing under the sun for a couple of days. But I've learnt even more enclosed by four walls. People are themselves when they're alone. I've seen nostrils, teeth, an arse or two and some things I daren't admit. Inside, I lead an intermate life. I've not only seen things but felt them. The warm breath of people when they lean close enough and the soft brush of the cat's tail. 

I only found myself outside because she (the woman, not the cat) decided to decorate. She needed a fresh start and decided to paint the room white. I preferred the pastel pink. But no one ever asks my opinion. Okay, that's not true, I'm always asked the same question. But even that feels fake as if they don't care what I think. 

"Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?" she asks, spinning in a new dress. Her friend is perched on the edge of the bed, holding another satin option in her hands. This dress is not her usual; it's tighter and cut lower. Its crimson hue pops against the newly painted walls.  

She never wore dresses like this when he was around. He'd scoff; he scoffed at everything she did. Unless, of course, there were other people around to see it. Then he'd be like all the artists I saw in the street. A performer. The cat sensed his facade, the difference being she had the claws to retaliate. 

"Get your bloody cat away from me!" he says, jumping off the bed. 

"Don't hit her!" she screams from the bathroom. 

"I wasn't going to." But he was, and he did. She (the cat) was so quick that he only got her once. And that was because one of her claws got stuck in his T-shirt. She slept behind me for two days after that. But don't feel too bad; she got the better of him in the long run. She (the woman) wasn't as lucky. I saw it up close - the bruises, the burns, the scars and the tears. He was a real piece of work. Most people are. You're anything but simple - the polar opposites of myself or the cat. She kept him around, persuading herself with his dramatic transformations anytime he slipped on his mask. 

"He was so sweet tonight," she told her friend once (the same friend lying on her bed now) after a long dinner party. Her friend rolled her eyes then - she was fixing her make-up in front of me. 

It was the cat that managed to break her out of her delusion. He had other women over all the time. I saw them: pale, dark, blonde, ginger brunette, tall and short. But always young, pretty and innocent.

"Your sister has good taste," one said, looking at the back of his head in my reflection. She was bronze and brunette with emerald green eyes. 

"Huh?" He's in the bathroom. 

"I said, your sister has good taste. I love this mirror." 

"Oh, yeah. I suppose." Like I said, he's a real piece of work. 

I've always wondered how that girl never noticed her bra was lying on the floor. Maybe she did, but she left without it. Before he clocked its bright pink lace on the wooden floor, the cat snatched it and hid it behind me. She purred all night, waiting for her opportunity. Then, when she (the woman) did come back, she (the cat) went bounding up to her with the pink lace hanging from her mouth. It was lucky they had company. He was furious. She was crying, and whoever the guests were sounded vindicated. 

"If we ever see you here again!" one of them warned, pushing him out the door. I think the cat waited for other people to come around. Of course, I can't ask her, but she's clever enough to account for his rage.

"I think the other one is nicer." her friend says, she's lying flat on the bed now, with her head resting on a mound of pillows. I love moments like this - when two best friends are hidden from the world. It's the most honest you can be. 

"But it's a bit much, isn't it?" 

"Says who? You look like you've stepped out of Vogue. I mean, this one is also a heartbreaker. But the red one is the one."

"But we're just going to dinner." 

"And?"

"Most girls wear jeans and tops to dinner." 

"Yeah, most girls. With that figure, you're not most girls."

"I'm not sure..." she says, hesitating in front of me. I've seen her like this before - weighing up the possibilities. She knows she looks good - confidence is brewing in her eyes - but she's wavering because of the audience of strangers swelling up and down the street below.

"Look, do what you want, but don't be shy because you have a figure anyone would droll over." 

"Danny would hate it." 

"Then all the more reason." the friend says, rolling off the bed to pet the cat. She runs away - there's only one person who can pet her. 

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Love, Luke