that isn’t me. [a “self-aware” angel concept]
“Angel? Have you seen my jacket?”
it doesn’t take a genius to gather if it is or isn’t themselves when they look in the mirror. at least, at face value. nobody shares your face as much as it is your own.
you might have a twin or a sibling that looks like you. they aren’t you, though. they don’t have your blemishes or your teeth. not your hair or your eyebrows. none of those little details.
some people might wake up and look in the mirror and think ‘wow. i look so different today.’ and go about it.
i can’t. that isn’t me. that isn’t my face.
“Angel?”
he opens the door and i look away from their reflection.
“What was the question?” I smile bashfully. He gives me a faux annoyed look- one that feels like it should be gentle, but in some way there’s judgement there. Is that something they’ve come to terms with? Something I should find endearing?
“Have you seen my jacket?” He appears to repeat, his tone softer. I give a general scan of the room, their fingers playing with the sleeves of my shirt before I shake my head.
“No,” I reply, “I’m sorry. Maybe you left it at work?”
He pauses, giving me a look that holds what I could consider confusion. He’s leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms.
there’s a silence in the pause that i don’t like. what did i say that sounded wrong? what would this person say instead? how do you pretend to be other than yourself?
He then interrupts the discomforting silence.
“That’s definitely possible. I’ll look when I go in.”
I nod, thinking the conversation would end at that point, but it doesn’t. There’s only a short pause before he tilts his head to the side, his eyes softening.
my- or, their- heart is pounding.
“Hey. Are you alright?” He asks.
it’s at this point i realise i don’t actually know this man’s name, but it feels as though it’s on the tip of my tongue. i look back at him almost dumbfounded, looking over his face for an answer to a question i hadn’t asked.
“Yeah.” I lie through my teeth, “when’re you leaving?”
“Five minutes?” He responds, before insisting upon the previous question, “are you sure?”
then is when i realise.
“David,” I smile, “don’t worry. I have, like, a little headache. Not even that.”
David looks at me quietly. He doesn’t seem satisfied, but not because of my poor excuse. Instead, it’s as though he’s heard news he couldn’t hear.
“Okay,” he then says, practically a whisper- “rest up.”
He leaves the room and I blink a few times.
there’s an air of confusion to me. a man who calls me angel. david. a person who isn’t me. angel.
i look back at the mirror. it feels a bit clearer now. not a smudge. my hand reaches out and presses fingertips against the surface, leaving prints.
i pull away and whisper to myself words i don’t speak.
“You aren’t me.”
I then respond.
“Pretend to be so.”
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