The guy came out of nowhere, as if lacking a true face, or so it seemed, with a certain whiteness of hands and gestures. Tight-lipped, he looked like the type reluctant to speak the words, the expected words, like those children who refuse to smile at the photographer's lens. But something about him, I don’t know, he couldn’t fool me (there, underneath, deep down, the scream was there). In his eyes, you could tell the intention, someone who kept some secret, the secret of the other who looks at him (his eyes in the mirror like those eyes in a painting that follow you). I wanted, what’s more, I would . . . But then, at that moment I heard my name. Back outside the bathroom, the crowd, the music; someone had crack-opened the door, Janet was calling me.
He disappeared from the mirror.