In my room

Almost all the way along one wall of my room is a mirrored wardrobe that faces my bed and, next to that, the sash window. Dawn has distinct stages, the mirror shows me: dark blue, heavy damask hangs behind the window, then silver and violet gauze, swirling in dew. Finally, delicate, rosy morning light invades the room and suffuses the mirror, and its reflection beams me upright.

The mirror is flattering. With the light behind me, I'm more immediate; with feet of mirror either side and above, I have my proper proportion. The mirror seems to like me. I enjoy dressing in it, fortunately, since I'd have to dress inside the wardrobe if I wanted to avoid it - everywhere else in the room is benignly surveilled. Dressing in the morning, I watch myself straight on. I panic less, am less surprised by the way my body changes the look of clothes. The mirror enjoys the same colours I do; in my eggshell room, orange and white, silver-grey and green are shown in their exact loveliness, on and around me.

But I think it's making me more lonely, all this looking at myself. When I wake up, sit up in my pile of white eiderdown, and reach over for the water, the sight of my long, pale back makes me wish someone else were watching. Now, as I type, I'm aware of the ladybird flash of painted nails in the opposite corner of the room. Singing, once a constant solitary activity, has become a performance, and I know exactly how far I can open my mouth without fillings becoming visible. I've started laughing that way, too, and every time I do, I’m pleased by how careful I‘m remembering to be.

Friends seem bothered by the mirror, and most lovers intimidated by it. Those that aren’t behave like circus ringmasters, their gestures exaggerated. I find them ridiculous. (The mirror becomes a camera for me to mug my dissatisfaction to: all this can be edited later, it promises.) None of the lovers I’ve fooled around with in this room has dared, yet, to ask, much less demand, that I use the mirror as a prop, or even that I watch us fucking, and I refrain thankfully from watching the aftermath of sex, the precise amount of fondling and smiling I can enjoy before I announce I’m hungry and we should get up and grab a bite. I leave them to whatever they see of themselves, and dress out of sight, in the bathroom, while the kettle boils.