What the mirror doesn't show

The bearded man examined his own reflection. The face itself was in no way unusual, but he was always amazed that the eyes did not betray him, that they did not tell everyone who took the time to look the whole sorry story of his past.



Almost imperceptibly, he shifted his gaze to the left. The woman sat there, an expectant expression on her face, reminding him of a puppy expecting a treat. She didn’t seem to realise that she had come to the wrong place – that all he wanted this evening was to be left alone, with a strong drink and the time and money to try and erase the memories. It never failed to amaze him how people always seemed to want something, how they seemed to view it as his responsibility to fill whatever gaping need their ordinary lives left in them.



The man excused himself, headed for the sign marked ‘Restrooms’, gratefully slid the lock home and leant his back against the door of the cubicle. Exhaling with relief, he considered his options. As usual, his overwhelming desire was to run, sneak out the back way, and make for the beach, the soothing sound of the waves, and a solitary cigarette to calm his nerves. Ruefully, he considered the half drunk glass of good scotch that he had ordered just before the woman blundered into his thoughts, assuming in the way that lonely people do that he drank alone out of necessity, rather than through choice.



Both hands on the sink, he glanced into the cracked and grimy mirror to find himself staring straight into his own eyes, noting the redness that spoke of too much whisky and too little sleep over the past few weeks. All the hoping, the fighting, and more recently, the running, had brought him here, to this point. With a sudden effort, he straightened up, broke eye contact, turned, shot back the bolt and opened the door.