Enough to render impotent the most virile of men. I glance at his bulging crotch that is immune to this frigid environment and declare that I am so miserable without him that I neither notice or care about my surroundings. He stops in front of the dressing table. “A broken mirror? Very strange, Soraya. Not like you!” I shrug my shoulders and tell him that I simply didn’t bother to order a new one. I do not tell him that the mirror was left intact to stoke my rage, to hone and polish my memories into crystalline slivers. I do not tell him that every morning after I wake up, and every evening before I go to bed, I study my cracked reflection in the mirror as I lose weight and my eyes acquire the hard glint of a predator. Our split image in the mirror, mine and Aziz’s, is a collage of broken bits and slivers. If only normalcy could be restored by shifting and setting the shards of glass differently on the mercury backing.
What do You think about Scent Of Butterflies (2013)?
