Reflections and Mirrors.

Spring to MLK. Then right at the Dunkin Donuts and a left at the next stop sign. First parking garage on the right. Doesn't everyone have their house to work route memorized? I do mine in my sleep. Some sleep walk, but I sleep drive. At least until the stop sign. I usually wake up right about then and find my landmark that lets me know that I was heading in the right direction in my sleep-driving. Some sleep-drivers have buildings or businesses for landmarks but mine is a lady and three children with the most sparkly eyes. Even in the pre-dawn dimness, they catch my eyes, kind of like those shiny dangling bells in business doors that let the sleepy college girl in the box office know she needs to stop text messaging and start doing her job.

Every morning, those glistening eyes, then take a left. And every night, after a long day at the theatre, those glistening eyes, then take a right. Except today.

Why are those sparkly eyes right next to my parking space in the garage? What do I do? How do we get home? Oh. The stop sign. There's a stop sign. Take a right at the...

"Stop sign, ma'am. Take a right at the stop sign. Sorry to startle you. See, the cars are so warm, and we don't try to steal anything or hurt anyone, we just stay here until the movies let out."

"Oh, well that's perfectly fine," I said, gazing straight into her eyes. I tried to look down and avoid eye contact, just like my mom had taught me, but I just couldn't. She looked so familiar. After so many Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at that stop sign, and now we finally meet. I just feel like I'd known her forever.

"Say, I go to the opera at least once a week, but I really prefer the movies. Don't you? English or Italian, some things are just the same, and I'm pretty sure "boring" sounds the same no matter where the language puts the emphasis."

Nervously fidgeting with my keys, I laughed. I thought I was the only one who used cheesy phrases like that in public places. The laughing came to an abrupt stop.

I hope she doesn't think I'm laughing at ...

"I'm 39. You're what? 23?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm 23, too. See, I've always thought that age is like one of those lottery machines on TV with all those number balls mixed up. It doesn't matter which one you pull out to display, the rest are still in there, you know?"

I think she just wants to talk. Don't we all just need to talk sometimes?

"So I'm 23, too. Twenty-three. Twenty-three. When I was 23, my hair was like yours, only curlier. That sweatshirt. Did you know I went to Emory, too? I'm a writer. I was a writer. No, I am a writer." She seemed nervous for the first time. "With an especially incorruptible love for adjectives and complete disregard for sentence structure. See, in school, they told me I was a writer, and I saw what they saw each morning when I brushed my teeth and pulled back my completely unmanageable curly hair. A writer. I was young, but I saw what they saw and I knew that meant something."

"A writer?" I tried not to sound disrespectful. I just didn't know. Would you?

She seemed saddened, but she kept that gaze with her shimmering eyes. "Now you don't see what I see. No one does. And that's what hurts most."

How can she keep looking at me dead in my eyes when all I want to do is look down? Is she going to keep going?

"When I was 23, I had boots like that. I don't think those are my size, but you get the point. I hope those boots bring you better luck than they brought me. I fell in love in those boots. Quite literally. My husband caught me and he fell, too." She half-smiled with her chapped lips and laughed a little.

We laughed, together. And sat down on the hood of my red VW, together. She crossed her legs, surprisingly lady-like.

"And love meant one, two, then three mouths to feed. So I wrote. He worked. I didn't get paid. He did. He liked it that way, I think. See, words were my thing, and numbers were his. You know what they say about literacy being power? See, I already had that, and he couldn't take it away, so he kept what power he could with those numbers. One, three, then nine and 11. Bruises seemed to be the only currency he was willing to share."

I started tearing up, but just a little. How could she talk so openly?

"So I could stagger to the sink and look in the mirror, only it wouldn't be me. It wasn't me for a very, very long time. He shattered things. He shattered people. When he aimed for my babies, we left. We came back when we ran out of money. It took 3 tries, but third time's a charm, right?"

I couldn't match her half smile. I couldn't match her laugh.

"A few shelters, but a after a month, they kicked us out. I couldn't get a job because I had zero license, zero references, zero addresses, zero day care. But I still have three angels."

"Yeah." What else could I say?

"I see mirrors everyday, Whitney. They wear nice-smelling clothes and have conditioned air homes and cars, but they are mirrors. Joanie, Mallorie, and Micah and me, we see ourselves in them. At least we know our reflections when we see them, though. See, we can't hide. But now I know how it feels to be the mirror. That's why they don't look at us."

Silence.

"Hey, do you know what time the show lets out?"

Now I know how it feels to be a mirror.

(Jonathan reminded me that may be I should state that this is fiction...)