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Mirror

Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I don't see my own face.

It's a bit odd to wipe off the steam from the surface after a shower and realize that you are not staring yourself in your own face. It's even weirder when you stumble half-asleep in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and realize the dark reflection stands a whole head taller than you and doesn't match your own build at all. Sometimes it's not just my bathroom mirror; I could be sitting in my room listening to music and I look up to find the stranger that is me sitting on the reflection of my bed, headphones on.

It's happened again; he stands in my mirror looking down at me with the same perplexed expression I know is on my face. After a shower, he's as nude and wet as I am with the same light blue towel wrapped around his torso and waist. I raise my right hand; he raises his. I drop my hand; he drops his. No question that the reflection is supposed to be me, then. My lips spread in a wide, wolfish grin. As does his, except the grin fits better on his face than it ever fit mine. I prop my hands up on the edge of the sink; he does the same to his own.

I experiment with him for a little while, as I always do when he appears. I strike a particularly feminine pose – hip thrust out to the side, hand resting on the hip – and he does the same, though it looks more humorous when he does it. I stand at attention, head held high and this time the pose fits him. I flex my muscles (or what little muscle I have) and he responds, his arms and pectorals well-defined. I try out “pin-up girl” poses and stances used for firing guns. I turn my head to the side and try to look at his profile from my peripheral vision (it doesn't work). I salute and he salutes back; I make the crooked finger “come hither” gesture and it's as if he wants me to somehow get through the looking glass.

By the time I'm done “experimenting”, my hair has dried out in thick limp clumps and most of the water has either soaked into the towel or dripped down into the rug. Now for an interesting one: brushing out my hair. I've got long hair, down to my lower back. His hair is cut short -- “I'm in the military” short. I want to see how this'd work out between the two of us. I pick up my hairbrush and shut my eyes as I slowly begin to brush out my hair – I want this to be a surprise.

When I finally open my eyes, I am me. Brushing my own lower-back-length hair and staring at the mirror in a mix of awe and confusion. I guess using the brush broke the illusion we had. I sigh, shaking my head as I leave the bathroom, still brushing my hair.