Where The Walls Speak

I blink.

The figure in the mirror does the same.

I press my hand to the cold, reflective surface.

And watch as she follows perfectly.

I puff out my cheeks - like a frog - just as she's about to begin-

"Athens!"

I start, pulling myself from the mirror - not seeing if she does the same - only observing now: the older woman leaning in the doorway; Mother, with her brown hair done tight, green eyes narrowed, and polished nails tap-tap-tapping on her aqua shirt sleeve in mild annoyance.

"This," she nods towards the mirror, "is not getting ready. Let's go."

Then she's gone, disappearing back, into the hall.

I return to my reflection.

But now, all I see is the scrawny blue-eyed boy I spy in every other surface staring back. All I see is myself.