By Sarthak Chamoli
A fusty mirror has been glimmering on my wall for quite a long time now.
I gawk at him and ask, what do you see?
Faces or faces staring at faces? And he gives me a strange smirk.
The first time I saw him smiling was when I was a boy and was trying to get rid of the loathsome mustache from my face. With trembling hands I tonsured it, but the razor blade was too sharp for the paper-thin skin. A cold stream of blood started to brim over my warm cheeks. I looked at him, he smiled and made my eyes moist. My strong skinny legs took no time to run.
When my fingertips were holding the extra flesh clinging on my waist, I heard his glass teeth clattering. I clenched my wrist, punched the wall near him- my knuckles turned red, I kissed them and applied ice cubes on them, but he did not quit smiling.
I used to smoke near him, but the smoke could not fog his smile.
I talked to him if he could listen or at least read my lips. He laughed again when I stroked my beard. I could see my lassitude reflection, but he did not stop smiling.
My heart was tired now.
I walked away without turning my back.
But today, I saw no smile. I could see droplets of water on his glassy skin. He is fustier than before, something in me misses his smile. I kept a glance at him but he did not smile. A gentle breeze hit my pale skin. I looked again, my wrinkles unwrinkled when I saw my reflection smiling at me.
I left him alone and went to bed.
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