He knelt on the wet grass and looked down at the silver-plated tray.In the darkness he saw the moon’s face reflected. There, I’ve caught it, he whispered. The spirits of the field did not correct him but smiled quietly and pressed forefingers to lips. His eyes were wide and then they closed and he fell to his side. The spirits smiled at him and at the tray. The next morning it would be in the house again, ready aligned to catch the first rays of the moon as they passed through the trees.
Light slices in through ice-swirled windows, high-piled snow deflecting its morning angle. Inside the room hot breath and sweat hang like mist, and fog the floor-length mirror. A finger could draw an arrow or a heart, write a promise or a threat. For now, like the overnight snow, the mirror remains inviolate.
I look over her shoulder into the bathroom mirror.
Her face is pale and beautiful.
She sees me behind her and starts.
‘Are you stalking me?’ she asks.
I smile but do not speak.
She does not turn around.
I think she says ‘I love you’ but the words are too soft to hear.
I try to speak but my voice is caught in my throat.
I hope she can read my love in my look.
I lift my hand to touch her neck.
She closes her eyes and, when she opens them again, I am gone.
I looked at my phone, a black mirror at the bottom of the goldfish bowl. The fish looked at me, then in the mirror. I didn’t have the heart.