Monday, January 01, 2007
It wasn't even New Year's Eve, and I wasn't the one smashed
There are three separate, distinct sounds. One, a sliding, like something rubbing against the wall. Two, a dull impact. Three, shattering glass. Just like that: one, two, three. Mr. Billy sits up in time to see the cat streaking out of the room at light speed. I'm still working it out, my eyes closed. Shattering glass. Shit. It was the mirror, the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. Or, not leaning anymore. In pieces on the bedroom floor. I haven't opened my eyes yet, but I can picture exactly where it landed, I could hear it spreading out across the floor.
Mr. Billy turns on the light, hops out of bed. "Don't do that," I say.
"No, no, my shoes are right here," Mr. Billy says, slipping them on. "I'll be okay."
I'm holding onto the footboard, looking down at the broken glass. I put my hands over my face. It creeps me out, a broken mirror. I know it's ridiculous, but I can't help it. Seven years' bad luck.
"What is it?" asks Mr. Billy.
I laugh through my fingers, nervously. "I'm trying not to be superstitious," I say.
The last time I broke a mirror was during a move nearly fifteen years ago. It was a big, old wooden framed thing that sat in my bedroom since I was a little girl. A curved top. It was gorgeous.
This mirror was just a cheap Ikea jobbie, nothing to get upset about.
I take my hands away from my face and look down. It's lovely, the pieces of mirror sparkling in the light, reflecting back shards of the room.
"While you're getting the broom," I say to Mr. Billy, "bring me the camera."