Reflect Chapter 2: The Mirror

An allegory of our times that delves into the territory of authenticity, faith and compassion.I wanted to ignore the spill and wrap myself in the afghan.

Sep 05, 2024

I wanted to ignore the spill and wrap myself in the afghan. Instead, I fetched paper towels from the kitchen and mopped up the mess. When the tea stain was adequately blotted, I curled up into the corner of the couch to feel its pressure against me.

I must have drifted off to sleep. When I opened my eyes, Ian stood beside me, smiling.

“Hello, sleeping beauty. You weren’t supposed to wake up till I gave you my magic kiss.” He kissed me gently on my forehead.

I gazed into his tempting blue eyes and said, “Again.” When he bent down, I tipped my head back and caught his lips on mine. “Gotcha!”

Another smile spread across his face.

“Hey, where did you hide my seven dwarfs?” I hooked my finger in the belt loop of his jeans. “Any chance they’re in the kitchen preparing dinner? I’m starved.”

Ian replied, “Me too. What’s for dinner?”

The cozy, melted butter feeling of slumber instantaneously vanished, replaced by prickly porcupine quills that bristled toward Ian. We had only been living together for a few months, and his habit of asking me what’s for dinner, like I was supposed to tend to our meals, annoyed me. I snapped, “I don’t know. You figure it out.”

“Are we a little fussy after our nap?” Ian asked as he towered over me.

Unhooking my finger, I said, “No, we aren’t a little fussy.” I sat up. His use of the plural pronoun ‘we,’ when he really meant ‘you,’ irritated me. My jaw clenched, and I contemplated standing so we’d be eye-to-eye, but it meant leaving the warmth of the couch. “I’m a lot fussy. Dinner is a meal we both eat, and we’re both capable of planning, fixing, and cleaning up after it. So I resent being asked what’s for dinner like I should have something in mind.”

The truth was I’d already thought about it earlier when I debated if I needed to stop at the grocery store on the way home. We had chicken in the freezer, rice and pasta in the pantry, and enough ingredients in the crisper for a modest salad.

Ian fell silent.

“I’m tired of being the one who plans dinners and gets it started. Just once, I’d like you to give it some thought before we’re both starved! What did you do for dinner before you moved in with me?”

Ian turned his back on me as he walked toward the kitchen. “I ate out a lot. Listen, it’s no big deal. I didn’t mean you had to fix it. You’re overreacting. I’ll take care of it if you want me to. What do we have?”

I should have been grateful for his offer. I wasn’t. Inside, I growled. My voice rose another decibel. “Taking care of it means figuring that out for yourself.” Asshole. “Call me when it’s almost ready, and I’ll set the table.” I also hated it when he accused me of overreacting. I wanted to say, That wasn’t overreacting. Here, let me show you what overreacting really looks like! He had no idea how much I contained my anger. I rarely screamed or slammed doors, though I’d been tempted.

As I put pen to page, my wrath washed out of me and into my journal. I was fussy, but not just at Ian and the default roles we’d slid into, as if the kitchen was my domain. My fleeting encounters today with Rumored Woman disappointed me. I wanted more. I wanted extended time with her. I wanted to know who she was, where she lived, and how she spent her days. Even though she looked like me, I speculated she moved through the world differently. What if it takes two people to live a full life? I’m likely the one obsessed with being productive, teaching, and redesigning my curriculum each year. She’s probably the relaxed, creative one. What if we could be friends? I appreciated how my friends’ different orientations freed me from my stuck mindsets to engage with the world from a new perspective.

As the youngest in my circle of friends, I benefited from their life experiences. Veena was the oldest, warm-hearted, and generous, despite the setbacks life had dealt her. After her arranged marriage, she immigrated to the States from Rajasthan, India. Her fertility issues drained them of finances and strained their connection. The only surprise on their adopted daughter’s first birthday was for Veena. Her husband announced he planned to divorce her and marry his pregnant mistress. Her husband was an ass.

Whenever I saw Veena in a sari, I recalled the grace and fluidity with which she moved through life; she rarely came undone. While my lips were often pursed, her resting face held a smile, and when she flashed it at me with her soft-throated chuckle, she prompted me to stop taking myself so seriously.

The song “Home” by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros played in the kitchen.[i] The refrain referenced home as a place we share. How could I have handled our fuss over dinner better? If I had a do-over, what would I say to his question, ‘What’s for dinner?’ I generated and silently rehearsed two possible responses for my back pocket: Good question, what do you have in mind? Or simply, I don’t know, what’s in the fridge? I didn’t have to feel responsible. I did want to respond with care and connection. Feeling responsible created an invisible tripwire, and I often stumbled.

Ian yelled, “Dinner’s nearly ready.”

When I joined him in the kitchen, he stood at the sink, straining pasta. I wrapped my arms around his athletic frame from behind and rested my chin on his shoulder. His dirty blond hair that lightened in summer months tickled my ear.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I want to talk about our meal habits and sort out what works for both of us.”

As Ian continued his task his body felt like a wall. He offered no gesture in response, no squeeze of his elbows against my arms that held his waist, or leaning into my cheek. He replied, “Fine.”

We both knew fine was code for I’m still pissed. Our pattern called for me to apologize again or try to draw him out into a better mood, then become angry when Ian didn’t acknowledge my efforts or do anything that indicated his willingness to meet me halfway. I’d traveled this road enough to make a different turn tonight. I didn’t have the desire or energy to drift into another bad habit. This pervasive tension over little things often ruined our nights as we separately hid in our books or a Netflix series. We were hungry. I hoped a rise in blood sugars might boost the atmosphere between us, so I opted for silence instead of another cat-and-mouse game.

The sautéed pesto chicken laced the air with a hint of garlic and basil. Ian had scrounged enough romaine and parmesan for a Caesar salad. I noticed he’d opened a bottle of Tait, Ball Buster Shiraz. Ian enjoyed choosing themed wines, and his message wasn’t lost on me.

“Thanks for cooking tonight. It smells great.” I set our round, cherrywood table with red wine glasses and a beeswax pillar candle at the center. Can we still salvage this night despite the rough beginning?

The next song that played was “Lean In” from one of my favorite groups, Rising Appalachia.[ii] Singing the words along with them, I couldn’t help but hear their advice:

Lean in
Let’s begin again
Bow down

Try this soft hearted…

Slow down…

Crossed borders, swam waters
Now I need you by my side…

Bow down, surrender. I needed to remain soft to find a way through our impasse, so I took a deep breath, letting my exhalation release any lingering fuss. I wanted to mention seeing Rumored Woman again, but I held my tongue. Maybe during dinner, I’d speak of it when the tenor between us had shifted.

We sat in our usual chairs and performed our typical roles. I lit the candle, and Ian poured the wine. I reached for his hand to say a blessing, and he gave me an extra squeeze. Ian was a man of many codes, and this was one of them. His gesture signaled he was back, no longer hiding out or brooding. I returned the squeeze as I began our blessing. “We are thankful for this meal, for our well-being, and for the opportunity to share our love as we learn to be in a relationship that nurtures us both. May we remain open to the mystery unfolding in our lives.”

The smile that filled Ian’s face, complete with his dimples, won me over. I eased into the conversation. “How are you feeling about your offsite this week?” I knew he flew out on Monday.

“A bit daunted. They’re working with another consultant to explore becoming an anti-racist organization. She assigned the executive team Ibram X. Kendi’s book, How to Be An Antiracist. On day one of the offsite, she’ll facilitate the reflection. I’m nearly finished with it.”

“I’d like to read it when you’re through. What’s your takeaway so far?” I wrangled a large piece of lettuce into my mouth, crunching a garlic crouton.

“It speaks more to the journey from an individual perspective and what has to happen societally in terms of institutional reform.”[iii] He paused to take a bite. “We’re grappling with what it means for an organization. Kendi isn’t explicit about that. We know it represents a major cultural transformation that entails examining policies and shifting mindsets. Everyone’s individual behavior and communication patterns will need to evolve. The key question is, what’s that path for an organization?”

“It sounds like uncharted waters. We both know that training and education are only as valuable as what you put into practice.”

Ian said, “Exactly. The conversations about it are challenging and polarizing when folks start posturing to prove that they aren’t racist.” He took another bite and continued speaking while chewing. “The brilliance of Kendi’s work is he names this dynamic, how the attention gets swept up in denial rather than addressing the root causes. He points out the opposite of racist isn’t not racist, it’s anti-racist.”

My mother’s admonishment ran through my head. Don’t speak with your mouth full. But if I corrected him, I’d ruin the night for sure. I didn’t stray off-topic. “Wait, what’s the difference between not racist and anti-racist?”

“Essentially, Kendi establishes there is no neutral in the struggle against racism, eliminating the space of ‘not racist.’ ” Ian paused to drink his wine. “People can either endorse the idea of a racial hierarchy as a racist, or actively work to dismantle it as an anti-racist. Being called a racist has become a slur people defend against, but it’s not the point—it’s a distraction. He wants us to focus on power, not people, on policies instead of groups of people. Racist and anti-racist aren’t fixed identities. We are all both on any given day, ideally striving to be more often anti-racist in our speech and actions.”

“Really, all of us? Does he include Black people as being racist too, not just prejudiced?”

“It comes down to a definition of terms. I know where you’re going regarding who holds the power, who benefits, and the presumption that Black people don’t have power. He’s taken heat on this point. It raises the issue of whether reverse racism is possible. Again, I think it’s a distraction. If an action or system is designed to oppress, if it upholds an inherent superiority, I’d call it racist.” Ian stood to have seconds.

A familiar weight descended on me as I pondered how I’d been complicit in perpetuating racism by being willfully oblivious to where it operated. Lost in my own thoughts, I leaned back in my chair. “I struggle with what to do about it that can make a difference. I don’t want to feel impotent, nor do I want to ignore it.” Ian refilled my wine glass. I craved something sweet to soothe my growing anxiety about the future. “Do we have any cookies?” I pushed back from the table and went in search of them.

“Yeah, I just bought some.”

I found them in the cabinet, but my initial attempts to pull open the white bag of Pepperidge Farms Brussels cookies proved ineffective. I will not be deterred. The crisp butter cookies with a dark chocolate center were a more sophisticated Oreo. Persistence rewarded. I reached for a cookie and placed the bag between us to share. “Sam has the right approach volunteering with Extinction Rebellion. Climate change is going to turn me into an activist. I’m fed up with being part of the silent majority and I need to feel like I’m doing something that matters.” I nibbled the spilled chocolate on the edges first.

“Your teaching matters. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I know it does. I’m not planning to quit my job. It’s more like I see teaching as necessary and insufficient. I want my actions to be part of the solution, not perpetuating the problem.” I finished my cookie and reached for another.

“There’s a reason it’s primarily youth at these demonstrations. They don’t have a full-time job and financial obligations.” Ian pushed his plate aside and slipped two cookies from the bag. “Just get to the end of school. You can join Sam this summer at her protests. There’s only one of you teaching and grading papers and only so many hours in the day.”

Ian offered me the perfect segue to update him on the recent appearances of my doppelgänger.

“I saw Rumored Woman twice today, first in Newburyport and later here on our porch.” I’d waited to start my cookie until I’d told him what happened. He remained silent while I ate the entire thing. “Well, a penny for your thoughts?” I tossed the bag of cookies out of my reach to resist further temptation.

Ian remained uncharacteristically quiet. Finally, he said, “I don’t know what to make of it. You obviously experienced something. It’s just odd, that’s all. How does she know where you live?”

My hands fidgeted with my napkin in my lap. I balled it up and put it on the table. I’d been perched on the edge of my seat and intentionally eased back in our Parsons chair, bringing my feet up to sit cross-legged. “I think it’s odd too. I don’t want to dismiss it, and I can’t find a way of letting it rest as an ordinary day. I feel a momentum building, but toward what I don’t know.” I rubbed my fingertips quickly up and down on my chest. “Even speaking about it makes the energy in here all jittery, like I’ve had a cup of coffee. All the other times I’ve seen her, we were in public. Today was different. She came to our home. There’s no denying there’s an intentional connection between us. Before, I tried to write it off as a coincidence, but not anymore, not after this afternoon.”

We both got up to do the dishes as if clearing the table might dissipate the unresolved conversation.

Ian asked, “How is it none of your friends saw her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe only I can see her.”

Ian poured himself another glass of wine and pumped the wine bottle. His hand-held vacuum sealing device literally sucked the oxygen out of the bottle, preventing it from oxidizing further and preserving the flavor, like freezing it in time. I stared out at the porch, and wished I could freeze the moment when Rumored Woman appeared, or at least slow it down. I longed for a chance to meet her, to get to know her. After turning out the lights, I joined Ian in our bedroom.

My expectations of finding him reading were wrong. He’d rearranged the clutter of books, journals, and jewelry on my bedside table and lit the candle hidden there. It signaled his desire for a sensual evening. The tealight would have been a fire hazard if it wasn’t enclosed in the glass lotus holder. I looked for massage oil, but it wasn’t on either of our nightstands.

“If you want a massage, I’ll get the oil.”

He replied, “No, I have other plans in mind.”

I purred inside in anticipation, jettisoning my clothes. Our old cotton sheets rivaled silk as I slipped between them. Ian lit the pillar candles on the dresser beyond the foot of our bed and another on his nightstand. The triangle of firelight illuminated the room.

He yanked off his green YES T-shirt with the snake on the front. His eyes locked on mine as he unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned, and unzipped his jeans. In one swift movement, he stepped out of the last of his clothes and into our bed. I’d been lying on my left side and perfectly timed raising the sheets to welcome him into our cocoon. The cool draft dispersed swiftly with the delightful warmth of our skin-to-skin contact.

When I leaned in to kiss him, he surprised me by placing his index finger lightly on my lips and traced his finger down my chin and neck, along the centerline of my body. Goosebumps rose on my skin for the second time that day. His finger passed between my breasts, down my ribcage, and across my belly button. When he arrived at his intended destination, he rotated his wrist and firmly cupped me, his fingers engulfing me.

The heat of his palm sent a tremor to my hips, and my lower back arched as my legs relaxed open. Wrapping my right arm around his shoulders, I pulled him, rolling onto my back, inviting him to lie on top of me.

He slowly slid his hand away leaving me wanting more. His lips nibbled my neck. “Better than cookies,” he whispered. “Mmm, I want all of you tonight.”

Ian knew I craved the weight of him on me as we started to make love. It helped me settle into my skin. He rested on his elbows so I could breathe freely and not be crushed under his 165 pounds. My hands caressed his shoulder blades, sides, and sculpted ass, as my fingers traversed the curves of his butt dents. This time, when I tilted my chin toward him for a kiss, he opened his lips to mine. The taste of red wine and hints of basil lingered in his mouth.

As our hips moved in sync with one another, a pulse throbbed stronger between my legs. I pictured a night of slowly kindling our passions for each other till the sparks caught fire—until the pounce of a cat near my right shoulder interrupted our plans.

Ian rolled off of me and said, “Well, hello, puss puss, what are you doing here?”

I immediately sat up against the backboard to distance my face from any possible contact with cat hairs. “Can you get her out of here?”

“Sure, she’s a beauty.”

If we’d owned the cat, I’d have ignored her or pushed her off the bed. However, given my cat allergy, I had no intention of touching her. How is it that cats always know who is allergic to them? Her presence wasn’t so easily dismissed.

“How the hell did she get in, and who does she belong to?” I wanted to avoid the inevitable eye-itching frenzy any contact with her hair created. She lacked a collar, but her round belly and shiny coat eliminated her status as a stray. Her persistent meows demanded our attention.

Ian used his affectionate name for all cats. “Come here, schmutt.” He reached to scoop her up, but she dodged him. First, she scampered to the foot of our bed, then leapt impressively to the top of our dresser.

I still wanted her outside. But before reiterating my demand, I caught sight of my doppelgänger’s image in the round antique mirror I’d inherited from my grandmother. Her reflection indicated she stood in the room’s doorway, across from the mirror. But when I looked, she wasn’t at the threshold. I jerked my head back—she still appeared in the mirror.

My chest fluttered, and my voice almost failed as I uttered, “Ian, it’s her. My doppelgänger, she’s here in our bedroom.”

ENTHRALLING with Morgan Magauran

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