Excerpt (of something new)

He always said his grandfather told him stories about reflection and about how all these people used to spend hours every morning in front of mirrors, making sure they looked better than everyone else. He said his mom would scoff and make fun of his grandfather, saying those ideas just came from dreams he had. He said he would tell his grandfather that he thought it was funny that people used to need reflections like that, like it was as if one version of the world wasn’t enough for them, that they needed a reversed version too, that maybe it was to remind them to think outside of the box, that the first person to invent the mirror did so as an artistic gesture. He said he would say that maybe it was like having a pre-painted canvas: all the work was already done for the artist, and yet he or she would still be able to make such a statement about the world, commenting on how backwards everything was. He was a liar, though and now I’m not sure if I believe any of what he said.

All those times he was playing with his hair, I thought it was just a quark of his when he looked into my eyes—maybe because my eyes were that astounding to him in this world of refusals. All those times just ended up being him readjusting that mop top to look pretty for the world, though. I bet he would even spit on the ground, get down on his belly and roll through the dirt just to see his face in that bubbly glob of reflection. He used to make fun of the people who his grandfather told him about when it was just us two by ourselves. He talked like he was better than them. I see it all now, though.