Reflections through the Smoke and Mirrors

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. And, this particular night, the iridescent hues seemed to find themselves dancing down the corridor leading to my study. The birchwood door is cracked slightly open as Dom peaks his furry face in to greet me. The lighting bouncing off his vibrant cyan fur, he scurries in my direction, curling his body next to the right side of the Victorian leather desk chair where he finds me hunched over.

Glaring into a blurry daze with a Virginia Slim dangling between my fingers, the phone continues buzzing as it sits atop my empty notepad. *He’s* left about ten voice messages in the last hour. My agent, Thom, has been hounding me for weeks for my manuscript and I've been stalling. The publisher giving him the ultimatum of me needing it completed and submitted within six hours overstimulates me and, to distract myself, I pay attention to my phone. *He’s* my favorite distraction. *He* knows about my deadlines, yet, *he* still finds a way to redirect my attention to the most toxic of thoughts. *He* knew about my deadline, I wasn’t anticipating having only a day to complete it, I told *him* I was sorry. But, no. Instead, *he* takes the opportunity to scrutinize me: how I say or don’t say something, how I move or don’t move in a situation, how do or don’t do something that considers *his* feelings - the manuscript is still not finished.

***

I exit my study and begin to walk down the corridor towards my kitchen, swirls of cotton candy winds gust passed the windowpane as I head to brew my third pot of coffee. Aromas of a hearty Columbian bean combined with the dessert taste of red rose petals and lavender appear visually in the room with streaks of a berry color story. I hold my empty stained glass mug, staring at the coffee pot, glaring in a blurry daze. I begin to head towards my window to redirect my glare into the other windows of my neighbors. I like to observe their lives and create my own narratives in hopes I can develop a compelling script. Maybe I can get one of them to write my story.

One neighbor is shirtless, dancing over the stove, listening to a pop song; it sounds like it’s Miley Cyrus. That's my girl, too. Is he having company? A dinner for two? He seems elated about it.

In another window, I find a couple bundled up on the couch with a blue light glowing across from them. Are they a couple or is it an affair? Is she an antidote to his loneliness and is he an illusion to her fantasies? Have they fallen in love with each other's potential or is it lustful bliss?

And then I find her. This young woman, sitting on the windowsill, hair standing regal underneath a head wrap. Her voluptuous silhouette appears to be of one who is with child, she has about two months before she bears. She’s in her bedroom with the television is on.

Are you looking at... me? Sitting on your windowsill in the distance but two floors below. The television is on but you’re over there? Why is your back turned towards the television? Why are you staring into the night? You seem so distant from the world, from yourself.

Pregnant Lady, do you see something I can’t see? Can you see the moon and where it’s placed through the rolling candy clouds? I can never find the moon, my vision from the building has been fuzzy. My disconnection with the moon is what allures me to develop theories of my own. But Pregnant Lady, if you were looking into the moon, I would be able to see your face. So are you looking outside at all? Or is it me who is looking at you?

My mind wonders if I find comfort in creating the narrative you were gazing outside the window, I would feel for you or you would feel me. Or maybe I want to feel sorry for you because I feel sorry for myself. Maybe I had hoped your pregnancy had trapped you the way my codependency has trapped me. Maybe I’m projecting my alternate life on to you, if I would’ve kept it just like you. Would I be glaring outside the window, too? Hoping to find the moon?

My phone abruptly startles me, I jump and reach for it…it’s Thom.

I inhale deeply and close my eyes as I answer the phone:

“Hi, Thommy”

“Chrissy, my love, are you alright?”

“I’m getting there, Thommy, just a bit jarred.”

“Oh, that's great to hear, my love how far along are you with the script?”

“Getting there.”

“Now, Chrissy, you know if you don't have this in time that's an X on this contract I worked my ass off to get for you, you MUST give me some-”

“Yes, Thommy, I know and I can’t do that if we’re on the phone, now, can I? I gotta go, you’ll have it on time.”

Forcefully hanging up the phone, tossing it across the kitchen island, I let out a loud scream. What the fuck am I going to write about? Sultry meows come racing down the hall as Dom comes running towards me frantically. He runs to hide behind my legs as if something was after him.

“Dom, what are you running from?”

I look up outside of the window and find her standing stoic in the window, looking right into my eyes. Her eyes bucking wide as the size of golf balls, beaming with a blood orange tint full of fury. My eyes soften with tears of fear and despair as the glass mug suddenly falls from my grasp on to the kitchen tile. The shatter startles Dom and he darts out of the kitchen.

“So-sorry, Dom! Dom, I’m so sorry, baby, I-”

My heart is literally beating out of my chest as I try to pick up the bits of broken glass with my bare hands, they’re trembling, fingers punctured by the glass pieces. I’m beginning to experience a shortness of breath. How the fuck did she me? Was she looking at me looking at her? Have we been looking at each other the entire time?

Rising up slowly with my eyes darting around, lips pierced open (quivering), I look out the window. I panic as the huge tide of tears begin to fall down my face, realizing she’s no longer in the window. The television is off and the curtains are closed. Where did she go? Is she looking for me?

Hard bangs come from the front door and I’m thinking, is it her?

“Chrissy, answer the fucking door!”

***