by Alex Salinas
I woke up and went to the bathroom. I’d been dreading it.
“You look like hell,” my mirror-self said. He looked exactly like me except for his eyes: two jet-black marbles.
“Likewise,” I replied.
We both smiled.
I turned on the faucet and splashed water on my face. Familiar pressure still behind my eyes.
“It’s a tragedy that my only role is to reflect what’s here,” mirror-self said.
“It’s your job. Now shut up,” I commanded.
“Remember, I choose to be here,” he said, smiling.
I wasn’t smiling.
I shut off the lights and left.
“Be seeing you,” he whispered.
Author bio: Alex Z. Salinas lives in San Antonio, Texas. His flash fiction has appeared in Every Day Fiction, escarp, 101 Words, Nanoism, and ZeroFlash.
Mirror is part of 101 Fiction issue 15.