Mirror

A white room and a party going on and I was standing with some friends under a large gilt-framed mirror that tilted slightly forward over the fireplace. We were drinking whiskey and some of us, feeling no pain, were trying to decide what precise shade of yellow the setting sun turned our drinks. I closed my eyes briefly, then looked up into the mirror: a woman in a green dress leaned against the far wall. She seemed distracted, the fingers of one hand fidgeted with her necklace, and she was staring into the mirror, not at me, but past me, into a space that might be filled by someone yet to arrive, who at that moment could be starting the journey which would lead eventually to her. Then, suddenly, my friends said it was time to move on. This was years ago, and though I have forgotten where we went and who we all were, I still recall that moment of looking up and seeing the woman stare past me into a place I could only imagine, and each time it is with a pang, as if just then I were stepping from the depths of the mirror into that white room, breathless and eager, only to discover too late that she is not there.