Mirror Mirror

chapter 2

They chose two seats near the last row, even though they had made it there with time to spare.  They silently watched the bidding for several items, until the mirror was unveiled.

It was exactly as she had imagined it, if not even more beautiful...one half in oak and the other in ebony, one side light and the other dark.  On either side, a young maiden stood with one hand raised above her head like a ballerina in motion.

The other hand rested above the mirror.  Each was a splitting image of the other, with wild flowing hair, that cascaded to their thighs, their faces etched so perfectly, you could swear they were alive...

They were dressed in robes.  The artist had not missed his mark, for each fold in oak, matched precisely to the one in ebony.  He had somehow managed to create a breezy effect that made it seem as if they were caught in motion, and though their hands touched slightly, their feet were apart.  One foot was set slightly in front of the other, both with their toes pointing downward, and all around the edges; there were tiny falling petals, giving the entire work an ethereal quality.  The magnificently sculpted frame fit snugly around the oval mirror, holding it in a loving embrace.

The work was untitled, the artist-unknown.

Sarah was drawn to it, as though an invisible thread had tugged at her, pulling her, urging her, to take it home. What secrets it held, only time would unfold, but for now-for now, all she could do was stare...

The bid had started off at twenty five hundred dollars. Sarah’s hand shot up immediately.  A voice in front of her mumbled, “Three thousand.”

‘The nerve of that woman!’ Sarah had fumed angrily, ‘She barely even glanced up!’

The auctioneer waved his finger at the pinched, old woman in green.  “I have three thousand.  Can anybody top three thousand?”

“Three five!” Sarah was surprised at how clearly her voice carried out through the room. 

“Three five!  Do I hear four thousand?” And so it went on, until the gavel finally went down, bang, bang, and bang, at twelve thousand dollars.  

Sarah couldn’t have been more pleased with herself, but Stephen had to pick his jaw up off the floor before following her out to finalize the final details of the purchase. 

‘Yes, it could be delivered at her apartment later that day.  Yes, she would be paying by cheque.  Yes, four ’o clock would be just fine’

He stood silently behind her.  Both hands were folded casually across his chest.  He was still deciding what to say to Sarah without sounding like a wet blanket.  ‘I hope she wasn’t expecting me to stop her . . .’

Sarah was ecstatic and the look on her face, priceless. She could not stop talking all the way back home, and once they got there, she waited impatiently for the mirror to arrive.                                                               

Stephen wasn’t as sure as she was.  That was the single most stupid thing that she had done in her life, and it was a mistake he hoped she would soon realize.

Sarah stared at the mirror possessively.  She was thrilled that it fit right in with her room, which was tastefully decorated in warm shades of cinnamon and browns. 

She slowly traced a path, delicately down one girl, then the other, letting her fingers stop momentarily, as she explored the indentations.  ‘Who ever it was that created this,’ she thought enviously, ‘Must have lived his life seeing things for more than they really were; for this work of art, has indeed, a life of its own.’

Not a crack or a chip - not so much as a scratch on its surface, as if it were made only yesterday, only for her.  She felt an immediate connection to it.

Invisible strings tugged at her, making her stare deeply into its depths, forgetting everything for a moment. 

They’d mount it later on.  Right now, all she could do was sigh dreamily at the young, fresh face looking back.

Stephen went to stand beside her, placing his palm against the smooth glass.  He loved a great work of art.  To try to understand it was something, but to know the feel of the wood beneath your fingers as your creation slowly came to life, to carve out your dreams from nothing only to have in your hands something remarkable ... now that was something else.  That was the true nature of an artist, and that was what Stephen was feeling.  That, and something else as well, something strange that he could not yet describe.  It was getting hard to breathe . . .

At the look on his face, she turned to him, breaking his train of thought. 

“Okay, spit it out. You know you want to.  I’ll answer anything.  Just don’t ask me why I spent so much.  You wouldn’t understand this one.”

Stephen opened his mouth, and then shut it as the doorbell sounded below. His questions could wait until he figured out how to ask them.