The Mirror and an Image

The first time she met him was at a party. Bored, she was sipping a drink and playing with her emerald earrings, when he made his appearance by her side.

"You know something? There's nothing more I would like to do now than remove my shoes and my tie and run barefoot on the beach, away from this maddening crowd."

She turned, startled. That was an exact reflection of thoughts. She glanced at his tie involuntarily, then at his dapper, well cut suit and finally at his rimless glasses. She smiled, slightly unnerved.

He seemed to realise he had unsettled her, and looked sorry about it. "I apologise for the abrupt intrusion, I just thought you would understand that feeling." He raised his glass in a mock toast and left, as suddenly as he had appeared.

That was the start of their crazy romance. Between two individuvals who shared so much and differed so little. Being with him liberated her. It liberated her from her fears, her insecurities and comforted her in a way no other relationship had before. He was the perfect partner - he mirrored her thoughts, her opinions, likes and dislikes and made up for all her own flaws. They shared a love for books, art, music, nature, law and writing. They were both aggressive, creative, successful and brilliant. Her troubled childhood, deep complexes and fears drove her to seek success. He was a reflection of her, but without those trappings. He complemented her, strengthened her and completed her.

The journey with him was more like a dizzying, wild ride. They did everything together, everything she had ever dreamed of doing. They had serious discussions under mango trees on park benches, they made out in dark movie theaters, they rolled with laughter on the white sands of the beach, they exchanged secret, loving glances across rooms; there was no end to the music of their love, to which they alone played the tunes.

She was in love for the first time - wildly, insanely, passionately and completely.

* * *

Her eyes were closing. She stared bleakly at the monitor, trying to complete her notes for an important case. It was late in the night, and behind her, her bed was calling out invitingly. He was already fast asleep on the other side, having had a long day himself.

A popup message flashed, You have new mail. Half wondering if it was worth it, she switched windows to her mailbox.

A new comment had been published on her blog.

She smiled. She loved writing, and hence had two blogs - one where she wrote regularly of mundane things, where people knew who she was, and the one where she posted anonymously- where she put down her deeper thoughts, darker stories, theories and fantasies. The anonymous blog seldom got any feedback, since no one knew about it. It was subject only to random hits. But whenever a useful comment was made on it, it thrilled her in a childish, happy way.

Rejuvenated, she opened the comments section of the blog. "Such beauty, such eloquence, such depth. Please forgive me for taking the permission to comment, but I have to say you write with tremendous insight."

Pleased, she clicked on the profile of the person who had posted it. He/she was called Katoptron. There was no information on who he/she was, but a number of articles posted by the person were available.

Curious, she began reading Katoptron's blog. It was a collection of short stories revolving around a man who fell in and out of love with many women. How he captured the women's hearts, the memories he had of them and why ultimately, he had to let go of each of them formed the content of the blog.

She was intrigued. The subject was not to her taste, but the person had written with great feeling , empathy and understanding of the character. The stories seemed to be the author's own experiences, but at the same time, there was an objectivity that made the author seem separate from the central character - as though the author was a third person who had observed all the characters so intimately and deeply that he/she knew them better than they knew themselves. Each story had a distinct style, as though it was a tribute to each of the characters to set the tone of the story according to their varying attitudes. The stories were poignant, deep and complex. Despite trying to dislike the protagonist, she found herself being drawn to his magnetism, passion and his distance.

The last post was titled A Special Person. It chronicled the character's love for a successful woman with great beauty and intelligence, how he had met her, how she had captivated him, and what happened next.

She felt a sudden chill and a sense of foreboding. Even before she read it, she recognised the tone of the story. It was narrated passionately, lovingly, gracefully, poetically, and yet it was sorrowful. It was her character setting the tone. Her love. Her aggression. Her fears.

They had met at a party. It was instantaneous attraction. Her childish innocence underneath a hard hearted exterior tempted him. Her vulnerability, hidden beneath an aggressive nature, appealed to him. He knew he wanted her. And he would get what he wanted.

It was her story. Their story. As she read it, she felt tears stinging her eyes. The sensitivity with which he described her, her own shortcomings and fallibilities that she had never known but he had seen - it was all there. The words, the style, the descriptions - he had captured her essence, raw and deep, and yet there was a sense of detachment in the narration. As though finally, this too had to end.

She paused at the last paragraph. "I might be capable of loving her, but I need to let her go. I am an artist of life. What she sees is but an image of herself, as I project it. It isn't what I really am. I thrive on change, on exploration. I refuse to be tied down, no matter how beautiful and powerful the attraction of the subject. Soon, I shall tell her the truth and this too shall become a story to be imprinted in time. A period of joy, love and laughter. A footprint in the memory of my life."

Nothing moved. The only sound was that of his rhythmic breathing as he slept peacefully on- unaware that he had shattered the heart of the woman he was currently sharing his life with.

*** The story is a result of a series of confusing, complicated thoughts over the last two days. You can call it the result of an overwrought mind. It is also my attempt to diversify from light writing. Comments are always welcome. The characters are not based on anyone I know. ****

Would also like to say that the rimless glasses of the guy do not refer to anyone real :)