Modern Narcissus

I know what made him leave.

It’s why I couldn’t finish when I was between Kyla’s legs. It’s so vulgar, all that wetness, the panting. Performative.

I was in her, the latex wrapped around my cock a reminder of what strangers we were, how little trust there was between us, between our biology. It went on too long – long enough for me to run out of things to whisper into her ear, long enough for me to feel myself going limp. Uninterested.

“What’s wrong?” Kyla asked. She picked up her sundress, holding the bunched fabric against her chest, like something there might have made me lose interest. It was yellow and covered in flowers.

Of course, I couldn’t tell her what was wrong.

I didn’t have to look in the mirror to know he left. Normally, I could feel the heat of his gaze combing me, hear him exhale when I got out of the shower and let the towel fall to the floor, let him see my ass. Back when I still worked at D.L. Smith and wore a suit six days a week, I saw out of the corner of my eye the way he pressed up against the other side of the glass, like a prisoner trying to fit through the bars.

I knew what he wanted, that very first time my reflection didn’t behave. It was August, and my AC was broken. I was examining my muscles, looking better than I had when I was twenty. I turned to examine myself in profile, but my reflection didn’t follow the script. He watched me. He raked me with his eyes.

Maybe I should have been scared. I was, a little. But I just kept turning as though my reflection were turning with me. I pretended I didn’t see him there.

August was when I had broken up with Mel. Dating lost its appeal. Masturbation worked pretty nicely.

That’s how he and I got started. Standing there. Across the room at first, me on the tasteful little sofa, him standing inside the mirror. Mutual, but at a distance.

On September 21, the Autumnal Equinox, he coaxed me over for the first time. A classic gesture that made my legs weak – one finger, curling, as if to say “come.” I did. I was expecting… Well, maybe expecting is the wrong word. But I was ready to go through the motions. Kissing, then hand work, then onto the serious stuff. The dance of courtship. When I got close to the mirror, he grabbed me. An arm ratcheted around my neck, end-of-summer tan, strong and striated like a hungry animal. His other hand took control of me.

Then, he was inside.

It was exquisite.

Over the winter, I worked less, and by Spring, not at all. On my days off, I’d lay in bed and he’d stand there, glancing around the edge of the mirror. Sometimes, one or the other of us would be stroking ourselves, and sometimes, we got off, but mostly, we just enjoyed being near each other, watching each other.

My mistake was that awful goddamn drive to feel normal. That’s why I met Kyla out at Henrietta’s for a drink, and that’s why, when she said she’d like one more glass of Cabernet Sauvignon at my place, I accepted. Because I knew I ought to want that. She didn’t even care that all I had was tequila. Of course she didn’t care.

He left after that night with Kyla, after all the condom and the ridiculous moaning. I was hoping he was just mad at me. Throwing a little fit.

A week went by.

I worked out constantly. I starved myself. Three times a day, I debased myself in front of that empty mirror, my windows covered by the blinds behind it to make it dark backdrop for him to creep into.

I put my soul into my seduction. I called out my name.

Still, nothing.

I was thinking about killing myself when Kyla texted me again. “Im around this weekend! You free?”

I tossed the phone aside and laid in bed. It only occurred to me hours later what was going on. I dug it back out of the comforter and slowly picked out the letters, like I was re-learning the English language. “Yeah. Henrietta’s?”

She agreed. Saturday at nine.

I have to apologize to him, apologize for Kyla. Words won’t do, of course. I’m planning on making a grand gesture.

I admit, it’s not a perfect plan, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m desperate. I’m not proud of it, but I’m fucking desperate. It’s harder to do these days, without getting caught, I mean, but I can just feel that it’ll bring him back.

Last night, Friday night, I laid it all out in front of the mirror. I was nude, hard without even touching myself, and was perfectly lit by the ring light that he and I both enjoy. It was dramatic, and the shadows made my muscles look like canyons.

I laid the Sig Sauer I bought for triple its price on the floor, six bullets in brass suits assembled at its side, standing at attention.

Nothing.

I placed the knife on the floorboards. It’s the biggest I have in my kitchen, sharp as the day I bought it because I’m not one for cooking.

Nothing.

I waited. I had all night. I Let the anticipation build. He was watching again, I know he was watching from just around the corner of the mirror’s polished glass.

I laid down the rope. Thick, coarse, like the kind a sailor would use. I drew it over my palm and felt the friction, the weight, the heat it left behind.

I should have known it was always going to be the rope. After all, I know what he likes.