Kaleidoscope

A Sketch

Woman at the Mirror by Giovanni Boldini. Italian, c. 1896.

I once walked by one of those large, mirrored windows almost every building in the city has. The kind people inside could see through, like gazing at an aquarium, but on the outside only reflected the buzzing throng of bodies busying about. I don’t remember where I was going exactly, only that like everyone else, I was in a hurry. 

The window itself was of no significance either, attached to a cafe called Lin-Z’s. I had never been in myself but passed often through my routes over the years. I had thought to take a peek at my appearance in the sleek window as I strutted forward. I wanted to get a quick glimpse of how my calves looked in these new Nordstrom cherry pumps and if my smirk looked sly enough in matching lipstick. Enough time to have me pushing my shoulders back and thinking, Oh! Who’s she? before continuing to wherever I was needed at that moment. But fate would laugh at me from the rooftop of that 32-story building no later than 9am. 

The second I looked to the window, I only caught a flicker of my reflection before the whole thing shattered. A ragged crack began right where my knit sweater’s collar met my neck in the mirror. The crack splintered in all directions and for the briefest moment I felt like Madam Arachne. This illusion shattered into a waterfall of glass that pooled at my feet. The sound at first was awfully jarring, a shrieking mess of a hundred bones snapping at once. However, I was then left with the sensation that I had just heard something musical. The composition like upward scales on a xylophone. 

I heard absolutely nothing after that but a numb, ringing silence in my ear. No obnoxious traffic, no usual street chatter. But that was the least of my concerns as I found myself locking eyes with divinity. The exact spot I had been staring at prior to the window’s dilapidation happened to be eye level with a man’s on the opposite side. He sat at a small table for two, arranged neatly on what should have been the side of the window panel. He was wearing a white, collared button-up, and had his hand around the base of a mug full of something steaming, and broken glass. 

His eyes were the only area of clarity my focus was drawn to. They were wide with shock obviously, as I’m sure mine were, but there was something else there as well. Within those swirling eddies of caramel and chocolate brown, was a sort of electric understanding. Once I recognized what I was staring at, I had a jolting realization that this man might be my soulmate. It was as if the space between our gaze was taut with a strip of red string. 

We were both still for what felt like years. Years of us consumed in each other’s presence. We needed not to speak with words or touch. His flesh was my flesh. His heart was my heart. We would stare at each other there, on that Nowhere Street in Unremarkable City until the cosmos themselves came crashing around us. Sending us both into a final embrace of solitude for the rest of depthless eternity. 

But alas, I could feel my brain itching to think: What the hell? I wanted so much to stay forgetful about what the early spring breeze felt like on the goosebumps on my arm. Or the clinking of dishes and stainless utensils that now emanated from the cafe. The absurdity of this silly meet cute began racing back to me, along with rationality. Was I hurt? Did I somehow dodge a stray bullet? Is there a four-inch shard of glass sticking through my big toe? When the answers came back as no, was when I realized I had control over my breath again. His doe eyes remained my focus, but I could see them twitch, and I knew he was breathing again too. I did not wish to be the one to break this trance between us, but I could start to feel the stinging glare of onlookers, and heated embarrassment to come. My blink sliced through that red string.

I don’t remember what sound I made next, something between a startled gasp and a deep exhale. I do remember taking the first step in walking away. I could not let myself be a fool to adrenaline. I remember prying my neck from the scene, now full of commotion, and begging my heart to not look back. No one called out to stop me. Strong fingers did not thread themselves with mine and pull me into a vibrating chest of adoration.

It was only when I turned the corner did I feel a sharp stab of pain on the sole of my foot. I slid off my pump. Inside was a piece of glass as big as my thumbnail. Between the speckles of blood that matched the interior of the shoe, I saw a fraction of my reflected face. I picked it up with two fingers and wiped it off on my sweater. I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of those beautiful earthen eyes, but instead saw the shade of my lips when I held it back to my face. At least this color looked good on me after all.

I ultimately decided to keep that shard, tucking away in my overcoat pocket. I slipped back on my shoe and continued on my busy path to nothing.