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The Reflection in the Glass

July 28, 2014

You have a miraculous time as a child discovering the sky and the sandbox and what’s the name of that flower? And then boobies and drinking your parents’ old stash of creme de menthe sitting on the berber carpet in the basement and getting caught in the seatbelt mid-kiss and then you get to go at it alone. At first it’s exhilarating: decorating your first apartment and buying cheap wine at liquor stores on the corner and throwing dinner parties (that everyone just gets “college drunk” at anyway), and making the perfect mix of songs for a road trip upstate with friends, but it drips away. You fall deeply, desperately in love and then you fall slowly and painstakingly out of love. And then you take care of yourself and you learn what you’re really like and what you really like. You accumulate nice things and you sit around, alone, listening to the music that you like and looking at the nice things you like and you wish someone would come over and tell you that they like you and your stuff.


He left his jacket on the back of your desk chair. A sort of corduroy reminder of the small physical part he plays in your life. This apartment is full of physical reminders of men who never come by; your ex, your father, and now him. You dug through the pockets, looking for answers to all the questions you’re too afraid to ask, but the days of finding answers on crumpled receipts shoved into pockets are long gone. He’s clean. Except for a dime, a dime in the right hand pocket, ten cents and some dried out tobacco that fell from the tip of a cigarette, probably. The fabric doesn’t even smell. You think it faintly reminds you of Fruit Loops, if anything, but that doesn’t make any sense because you’ve seen the contents of his cabinets and his fridge with no milk. He’s simply not in the jacket.

All of the things left behind, the books and the upholstery and the tobacco now under your fingernails, none of it holds any meaning. They’re just things left behind, like voicemails or notes unwritten, or unsent blank birthday cards full of intention. Or moments, playing like black and white movies on a projector in a bar behind a whiskey shot but you can’t see his face. It could be a reflection of you, but really, all that’s left is a pile of stuff.

So you lie on the floor wondering if you should pour a glass of wine; and the wood paneling on the ceiling is really nice, you like it, you think. And this song reminds you of the time you were on drugs and thought you should probably lie down.

The sun is still out. Why make that glass shatter? Why throw it at the wall? Certainly not for the noise. For the men who don’t come around.

Break the glass. Bleed into the reflection.

One Comment leave one →
  1. July 31, 2014 5:01 AM

    How were u feeling when u wrote this? Just curious.

    Sent from my iPhone


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