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.
