Magic is what happens when the sun rises, When last night’s decisions come through. They line up straight, all neat they create, The intention of ruining you. Excuses are next, as they pour in your head, Your defence; the only by your side. It perks up your back, guides down the track, ‘They’re not gonna know you’ve lied.’ As the sun gets higher and the room gets brighter, The evidence is washed bright with light. It could be the drink, the vomit in the sink, Irrelevant as the guilt casts tight. Things now seem so different, but is that the point? The reality is always more tragic. Last night I regret, I wish to reset, That opportunity we know as magic.

I licked the paper napkin and swiped it at the glass. At least, I think it’s glass. Is mirror glass or its own material? Do underpaid, overworked South American’s mine it from deep caves under forgotten lands? Just tribes of them being blinded after their powerful head-torches get bounced straight back into their eyeballs, but it’s all good because they’ve struck mirror! I knew it was going to be a hard day when the smudge remained, forcing me to realise that my mirror was in perfect condition and it was, somewhat unfortunately, my face that needed a touch-up. It wasn’t a blemish, as such. More a sort of... drooping. It was only the left side. My left, not the mirror’s. A cascading skin-mountain that hosted many a concussions. I looked like a cheap candle. The ones that don’t burn evenly and cause singed fingers and moody tantrums. I tried to be optimistic. ‘At least half of me looks happy to be going.’ I said aloud to no one in particular. I sighed and my breath caught the surface in front of me. I’d subconsciously moved until hardly an inch were between me and my melted reflection. I hated the mirror. Oh, I know, I know. It wasn’t the mirror’s fault. They were only being honest. It still left me a bitter taste. ‘Is my mirror a boy or a girl?’ I thought, allowing my head down this rabbit hole of philandering. ‘No, mirror’s are smarter than us. They would be ahead of gender conforms. They wouldn’t identify themselves by such trivial things like whether they came with a frame or the direction of their edges. I don’t think I can go to Dad’s funeral today. Not looking like this. My shirt looks like it has been ironed by someone with motor neuron disease and with my cheeks failing to look like they belong to the same skull, I might as well add stroke victim to my list of self-describing features. I can’t turn up today, it’ll look like I’m mocking him. Trying to one up him. ‘Look at me, Dad, half of my face abandoned its post too, but I’m still alive.’ He always thought I was trying to prove I was better than him. Trying to prove myself the better man. The truth was never as simple all being told. A therapist once told me I was just trying to get his approval most of the time. Imitating similar decisions and patterns of behaviour, so that maybe one day he would look at me as his own. I think there’s probably some truth to that. I’d be lying if I said he’d always made me feel deserving of any respect I’d managed to claw at through my four decades on this Earth. My stomach rumbled and I remembered I hadn’t eaten anything since last nights lasagne. It’s funny. I admit I enjoyed it but I am slightly concerned for my appreciation now that my face seems to resemble one. I take a last depressing look at myself. All suited and booted with somewhere to go. I fix my hair, fiddle with my tie, take off my shoes and walk back upstairs.

I don’t want you to think I’m a climate-change denier, but the amount of glaciers currently bouncing the sun’s rays back into my eyeballs makes me think the guy who said the ice caps were melting was full of shit. I feel the same toward the person who said that cold weather was invigorating. I think it was my aunt. But whether it was or wasn’t her, I’m now imagining her catching frostbite and passing out in the snow. The snow on the top of the glacier, where she falls a little too far to the right and is cascaded down the cliff side. Only to awaken on an operating table with three fewer toes than she had previously and a head concussion. Then she gaps with fear as she sees my face appear asking if she still believes these conditions to be ‘invigorating’. I think I’m just tired. I still haven’t fully recovered from the flight here. Or should I say flights. I’m not sure if it counts if your layover is more than twelve hours of waiting time.This was only the case because of delays, of course, but I suppose there comes a point where the supposed’ joining-flights become a separate journey altogether. I did take a look around Vancouver while waiting, so I guess I could class it as a separate vacation. It doesn’t really matter either way. I’ll be honest, I’m a little relieved I’m so tired. Usually, the thought of arriving in a whole new place of work, decked out with a new team I’ve never met before, working in a research lab where the common buzzwords and jargon might as well be in a different language, would have me shaking more than the icicles on my eyelashes. I thought the only upside to jargon was that once you’d joined the club, it was universal across the globe. I was mistaken. You could also list ‘coming across as an entitled bellend’ to the list of things you can achieve from jargon but we’ll leave that for another day. The team seemed nice enough, even through my jet lagged and for some reason, over-confident brain. Not too many wondering eyes and only a few squarks from nerds who didn’t expect to have to work next to a woman. A few second-takes after remembering my qualifications and seeing if they matched the person who showed up. I don’t mind, though. I agree. If I were them, after reading my CV, I’d have also expected some troll with their own portable catheter and a decade’s supply of asthma inhalers. Simply because the world has to balance out. I’m not quite a supermodel, but I’d definitely agree that pairing my reasonable good looks, modest social skills and Da Vinci-like intelligence may make one shake their fists to the skies, cursing the creator for not leaving any boxes unticked. If it made them feel better - I’m shit at anagrams. If I had to give the glacial research centre props, it would be for the respect they give on the team’s time. It’s my first day and I’ve been given the entire morning to adjust to the new surroundings. Other than freezing my tits’ off, their advice to walk along the pier to get my body used to the weather was a smart idea. Maybe they will find something useful to contribute to the glaciologist institute? It would certainly make my guilt ease for the amount of funding that went on simply acquiring me. I hear a rumble from the largest glacier. The one I’ve been staring at blankly for the past ten minutes. It sounds weary. As if cautioning it’s neighbours that there’s a stranger about. Someone who’s not supposed to be there, but has turned up nonetheless. There’s another rumble as if to confirm it’s suspicions. ‘It’s okay.’ I say aloud. ‘I feel exactly the same way about you.’