But no, the mirror was empty. I touched the surface. Cold. Clean. Polished. Indifferent.
I saw the Monstera on the other side. Growing, expansive. Mocking me—it was there in both worlds.
I turned to the receptioninst. She glanced over me coldly. Why? I waved a hand. She turned away.
Was I a creep or was I really… not there? Mirror neither she nor someone’s dog they left in the lobby—didn’t care about.
Come on, not before the interview! I’ll miss it if I suddenly disappear. 252 applications—in vain. I checked. My wristwatch shown 15:28. Just enough to enter the elevator and reach the conference room.
I—no longer sure of anything—approached the wall clock. Same 15:28—no change. As if to mock me, the arrowhead moved times slower than my heartbeat. Was the beat so fast—or was the clock hesitant?
In the glass of the clock case—it peered at me. Nothingness. Void. Ghosts of things, reflections. I wasn’t among them.
— Now sell me this pen. What’s is its story? Why should I have it?
I cast my sight on the glass wall behind the interviewer. There’s them and—no one else.
— So Imagine this: You are at your desk. It’s midnight. And important contract sits at the desk. You have to sign it. A lot is at stake. And then you see it. The mirror. There’s no reflection. There’s no you. You grasp for air. You need to exist. You need to sign the contract. No time to disappear. The only proof you exist is—the contract. You have to sign it. But where’s your pen? Here it is—a cheap mass produced crap—just $1.
Pen sold. I have rasply exhaled after the glass door closed behind me.
— …this guy sure was impressive—but what was this thing with mirrors? Made me quite uneasy.
I have good expectations frome this interview. The mirror talk was a nice move… If only it wasn’t real for me. I imagine now:
The first working day. Brush my teeth—without looking in the mirror. Arrange the tie—without seeing. Brewing coffee—no reflection in the stinking abyss of the cup.
It’s a disaster. All these time without mirrors. Me almost jumping, retreating from any reflective surface in uncanny shock. Weird looks when I stumble into glass walls. There’s something wrong with me. I just can’t.
Air hitting my face. Ground approaching. And the glassy surface of the office building—reflecting me?
CC-BY 4.0 2022-2026 by Artyom Bologov (aartaka,) with one commit remixing Claude-generated code. Any and all opinions listed here are my own and not representative of my employers; future, past and present.