Teardrops are a collection of short, slightly sad stories (but remember, there are tears of joy and of love), that exist for a brief moment before they are wiped, and shed every Sunday. Or when they are ready, whichever comes last...


by Antheros

I never liked mirrors, not sure why. When I used to see an analyst, she said that I was afraid of seeing myself duplicated. That was a waste of time. I know analysis helps a lot of people--or so they believe, whatever--, but to me it was a waste of time. Whatever. I think that it's not the multiplication, not even the endless multiplication of parallel mirrors--though I must say that I hate that, the farther images being more and more distorted by the bad mirrors, until they are blurs. But where do you find parallel mirrors? Almost nowhere, on a few kitsch elevators and an occasional hotel lobby. I don't travel much anymore. I used to, part of my job, trains and buses, then planes. From one place to another, I've seen more thirty, forty times more airports in my life than I had girlfriends, which is not something that I'm proud of. I initially liked it. New places, feeling important, yesterday I was there, tomorrow I'll be two thousand miles away, but I soon got tired. You lose your referential. You wake up in a room that is not yours, that you'll not ever see again. You are alone, there's nobody to say good morning to, no familiar faces. You wake up, take a leak, shave, and leave. The same practical hand bag, which when you get experienced has two clean shirts, underwear, an extra pair of pants just in case, a toothbrush, and it's too much already. Sometimes you don't even know where you are, where you are going to. That's when I decided to stop, one time I was taking my second plane of the day, and I couldn't remember the name of the city I had slept in. I only knew the place I was going to to know which gate to board, and I'd probably forget about it tomorrow or the day after.

I told my boss that it was it. I wanted to stop traveling. I'd accept to earn less, to get a lousy job, whatever, but I didn't want to see a plane again. He was leaving for another job, I didn't know that, but I got a promotion and his place. He recommended me, I'm sure. A few days later, when he announced that he was moving to another job, he said in private to me: "I fixed that thing you asked me," he said. I was promoted the next day, much to the envy of a lot of people. I didn't care.

You could say that mirrors remind me of the hotel lobbies, but I hated them even before that. My first serious girlfriend--not the teenage affairs, the first one that I used to sleep in her place without giving it a second thought--had a big mirror in her cabinet. On the inside of the door there was a full-body mirror. She would open the door to get her clothes and always take a second or two to admire her body. Maybe she was looking for imperfections, she was a woman, they are always looking for imperfections. I don't understand that. I can go on for days without glancing at a mirror for more than my morning shave, and it's so automatic now that I don't even realize I'm looking at myself. I just shave. It could be a magic mirror, it could make my hair black or green and I wouldn't notice. I liked, sometimes, when she looked at herself naked. It was on the weekends, and she posed for herself, but I sometimes could see her reflection on the mirror as well, her perky breasts, with lovely nipples that I loved to pinch and nibble and suck, her svelte silhouette with long legs, the way she stood on the tip of her feet, so used she was to high heels, the arms moving sinuously, checking for fat here and there and not finding it, but I had goose bumps from watching her long nails barely brushing against the golden skin, sometimes combing her hair from one side to the other, trying new styles, all the time in a slow, very, very slow dance that was hypnotic, swaying the cute little ass that I could see without the mirror. She would notice I was watching--she knew it the whole time, but she would pretend to notice--and would smile naughtily, looking at me through the mirror, say something like "Are you watching me?" and come to bed. Those were the best, she fucked like there was nothing else, but always looking at the mirror. I guess she liked to be seen, and the mirror was a way for her to be seen, even if she was the one looking--masturbation for an exhibitionist, I don't know.

23 Jan 2005