There were no mirrors in my apartment. Not through design or fearfulness; only circumstance. Some days I would go down to Cara’s, sit on the edge of her bath and watch her at her morning mirror: checking the whites of her eyes, the gaps in her teeth, that no hairs had sprouted from her chin. She would smile and grimace at herself. She needed the mirror to know she existed and that she hadn’t aged in the night. Sometimes she would swing open the cabinet door, and only when her eyes found mine did I know I existed too.
This is a 100-word flash fiction, part of the Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week the picture above has been supplied by Ceayr. Click here to find out more, read some other stories or join in.