mirrors
a short story about hating yourself
Ana knew what she’d seen that day. Knew what she was trying so tirelessly to deny. As she pulled into the driveway– head filled with fog and half-coherent thoughts– Ana couldn’t help but freeze, body stiff as a board. The distant thump of her heartbeat grew louder, ears vibrating in a reddened heat. An ache encapsulated her cheeks, her trembling chin, which she tried to control by pursing her lips in that usual, permanent frown. Ana’s hands gripped the steering wheel– clenching and unclenching– until she let them slide down with heavy gravity, palms landing up in her lap.
There was no explaining it– the photos of her husband at dinner with that woman. A young woman. A blonde woman. A young, blonde, beautiful woman. Her co-worker, Lucy, was out at Tino’s with some friends yesterday evening– drinking expensive wine, eating expensive cuisine. That was, until she saw Michael across the dining room– recognizable from the framed photos in Ana’s office, the times he picked her up from work early in the relationship. Lucy snuck a quick snapshot with the intention of showing Ana during her shift the next morning.
“I don’t really know how to tell you this,” Lucy had told her at work that day. “I… think it’s just best if I show you.”
And there they were. There was no doubt it was him– his right sleeve tattoo, the back of his head full of those dark curls, the white dress shirt Ana had just bought him for his conference next week. The woman was stunning– couldn’t have been a day over twenty five. Ana took note of her curves, the dimpled corners of a bright smile, french manicured nails. She was astounding. Sickening.
Ana said nothing. Embarrassment filled her eyes as she looked up at Lucy’s wincing, apologetic expression. There was nothing to say. Ana swallowed hard, gave a curt nod, and pretended to organize her emails for the rest of her shift.
How? How could he do this?
Her mind raced, as aimless as her randomized typing. Every detail of the night before flooded her mind– the “overtime” Michael texted her about, the smell of his cologne when he returned home at nine o’clock with a wildflower bouquet. Guilty flowers? Cover-up flowers? Had he bought two bouquets before his date– Ana’s sitting neatly in the passenger seat as he sweet-talked this… this girl?
That’s what she was, especially considering the signs of Michael’s receding hairline that Ana purposely avoided mentioning. She learned the hard way when he snapped back at a joke she’d made during their ten-year anniversary dinner a few years back. He was insecure, but so was she. They’d learned what not to bring up around each other. Ana thought of the woman– the lack of insecurities a girl like her must have. How exciting it must have been for a man like Michael to be sitting across from her in that low-lit booth.
For the entire drive home, Ana thought of sex. The lack of it. Her frequent denials. She thought of all the times Michael left for work in the morning, after daily kisses on the neck and wandering hands lead to nothing. She thought of her tearful apologies, his assurances. Ana remembered how he stood in the doorway each morning before leaving, a lingering kiss on the top of her hair before heading off for the day. The hour or so period between his departure and starting her commute to work was spent in front of the floor-length mirror of their bedroom– staring, posing, arching, prodding. She’d pinch herself, see how much loose skin she could grab. It was like a daze, a sort of tranced state as she’d lean in with the tip of her nose resting against the glass.
Ana would sit in still silence, eyes weighing over the fine lines of her forehead, the greys of her roots, deep jowls that made her feel as though she looked to be in a state of permanent distaste. She’d search– search deeply– for sensuality. An ounce of desirability. All she ever found was a body that wasn’t her own.
Guilt bubbled her gut as she sat in the car outside her home, quickly replaced by shame for feeling such a thing. He cheated. He betrayed her. Anger flashed as she thought of all the times he’d promised loyalty– the proclamations of forever they had made. She thought back to college, when her friends would return to exes, how quickly irritated she grew at their toxic cycles of resentment and rationalization. Ana swore she’d never find herself in such a situation. She was even known to annoyingly boast to her friends of Michael’s everlasting patience, his thoughtfulness and extravagant surprises.
Demand answers. Confront him like the liar he is.
Ana bit the inside of her cheek as she stepped outside the car. This was the last time she’d walk through the door to him. Things wouldn’t– they couldn’t– be the same after this, no matter what explanation he’d come up with. She gulped as she stood on the front steps, fumbling with her keys to unlock the door. Ana’s breath shortened, blinking harder as she thought whether she was to cry, scream, remain eerily calm? There was no time to decide. She needed to know why.
The lock turned– Ana’s body was not her own as she slowly stepped inside. The soft lamps of the corridor felt wrong, too congenial for the irreversible damage soon to become reality.
“I’m home,” Ana called lightly.
Really? she thought. That’s how you’re starting this? Storm in there! Be aggressive!
“Ana!” Michael responded, head popping out from around the corner in the living room. He walked towards her, arms slightly out as if wanting to embrace. “How was your day at work, love?”
How innocent he made himself appear. His lazy smile, casual sweats and a t-shirt like he had no stress or care. She held up her chin, ready to attack. “I have some–”
He cut her off with a swift kiss atop her hair. The kind he gave her before his departures each morning.
“I’ve missed you,” he said softly, a hand caressing the tips of her twitching fingers.
Ana stared at him. Really searching. He must know I know. But no matter how deeply she looked into his eyes, they didn’t waiver. Traitor. But a traitor wouldn’t look at her the way he does. He’s playing me. But who is she without this life? Say something!
“I– I have to go to the bathroom.”
She rushed down the hall to the restroom door before any chance of response, fists clenching and unclenching once again as tears peaked in the corners of her vision. He definitely knows you know, now. Ana could feel her breathing become uneven, long and short hitches mixing interchangeably as she leaned over the sink. The girl’s face flashed in her mind– wide eyes of adoration, of excitement, of youth. Ana couldn’t even begin to compare herself to her. There’d be no point.
She’s everything you’re not.
Ana felt a wave of sickness at her lack of self-respect. How easily she’s found herself justifying the actions of an adulterous husband. She loathed at her own self-disgust. But oh– how she’s lived in it. How if she says nothing, she’ll wake up tomorrow morning to the one person who somehow still yearns for her. Who sees what she never will.
Her eyes glanced up at the sink mirror, the tip of her nose barely touching the glass. Everything she hated staring back in distaste.
Maybe tomorrow, she thought. Maybe tomorrow, I guess.
If you’ve come across this, you’ve just read my second published short story! Thank you so much for reading, as I hope that my work can touch the hearts and souls of many. Keep a look-out for more short stories, poetry, film/literature analysis, and op-eds!