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.