Mirror

chapter 1

Dominic Moretti's -session 14

Dominic’s early years were spent in the dimly lit, perfume-scented rooms of a brothel. His mother, Maria, was a constant presence, though often distracted by her work and her addiction. The other women treated Dominic with kindness, often looking after him, sharing their food, and telling him bedtime stories.

Session Notes: Dominic speaks fondly of the women, describing them as his protectors and surrogate mothers. He recalls feeling loved and cared for despite the chaotic environment.
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You say yes to one drink, and suddenly you're at a charity gala. I hate these events. Sure, it’s nice to spend some money and do a good deed, but the people are so fucking insufferable. Every time one of these obnoxious men, who are obviously cheating on their wives, comes up and starts a conversation, I resist the urge to kill them.

Am I anti-social? Yes. Am I proud of it? Absolutely. I have two friends, one of whom is an employee, so technically it doesn't count, but it does to me. God, I hate it here. My therapist would be disappointed, to say the least. My anger issues have gotten worse, and my lawyer quit.

It’s my fault, kind of. I ended up threatening to kill his entire family. Oops, I guess. I walk over to the bar. “Whiskey, thank you,” I say to the bartender.

“Sorry, Mr. Moretti, it's a non-alcoholic event.”

Great, it’s a non-alcoholic event. What else am I supposed to do to make this go a lot faster? “I’ll have whatever tastes best,” I say, a tinge of annoyance in my voice.

I take in the room for a second—people in black tie chatting around. It smells like money, so not that good. The bartender puts down my drink. It's pink and sparkling in a cocktail glass. “Thank you,” I say, putting the tip on the table. I feel someone come up and touch my arm.

“Mr. Moretti, it's been a while.” The blonde says, looking up at me. What was her name? Jane, Jenna, Juliet, something with a “J.” I look at her, trying to remember.

“Virginia Wolfe. We met in Spain two months ago,” she says, giggling. No thank you, not my type at all.

“Thank you for the chat, Miss Wolfe,” I say, getting up and walking away. I go out to the balcony. The city looks so beautiful at night. I sit closer to the balcony and take a sip of my drink. It tastes sour and sweet, not bad. I look to my side; someone else is on the balcony.

“You look like my drink,” I say to the woman. Out of pocket, I know, but I couldn’t help it. She’s wearing a pink satin slip dress. It looks good on her brown skin. She turns to look at me, and I catch a glimpse of her sharp brown eyes.

“Your drink has glitter,” she states. She’s ethereal. I can't help but notice the way her eyes seem to hold galaxies within them. She takes a sip of her drink, and I find myself mesmerized by the way her lips touch the glass.

“Your eyes glitter,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. She almost chokes on her drink, her laughter tinkling like wind chimes in the night.

“Have we met before?” she asks.

“No, I would have remembered you,” I say, my gaze fixed on her, unable to look away.

“What brings you to this serene refuge, Miss...” I trail off, wanting her name.

“Monroe,” she says. “Rough night.” She gestures to the semi-dry stain on her dress. I can't help but notice the way the moonlight catches the subtle sheen of her dress, accentuating her curves in all the right places.

I shrug off my suit jacket and wrap it around her, my fingers lingering on the softness of the fabric as I drape it over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft and melodic. I'm drawn to the way she looks up at me, her eyes reflecting the light from the city below.

“So... Monroe, is that a first name or...?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation going. She smiles up at me, and for a moment, it feels like the world stops spinning.

“Last name,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. I wonder if she knows who I am or if she’s talking to me for the hell of it, but it really doesn’t matter anymore.

“There you are. I’m ready to leave now.” We’re interrupted by an older man. Her husband? Boyfriend? I take a closer look at him. They look alike, so maybe it’s her father. She pulls away from me, and I feel a pang of disappointment as she moves out of my reach.

“It was really nice to meet you,” she says, her voice tinged with regret as she and the man leave. I watch her go, feeling a rare sense of loss.