I remember him: the expression on his face as he examined the petals of a rose. He wore an expression of enraptured wonder as if he held something far stranger than a flower. He’d gone to a florist’s shop and purchased the single rose. Its thorns had been removed, and so it was safe to hold, safe for a gallant gentleman to offer to the lady at the heart of his fancy. I remember what he said. “They grow the other way here.” He laughed, stroking a single rose-petal between thumb and forefinger. I remember him—that day—and the way he smiled like a child discovering his shadow for the very first time. His face, frozen in rose-centered scrutiny, was immobile. I remember his strong, delicate fingers: long, at the tips of a long palm. I have heard his hands described by those who read palms. An Apollo hand…the graceful hands of an artist, a musician, a killer. He sat across from me, still in the breezes stirring their way through the patio of Café Marrakech. Somewhere beside us, hippies smoked apple-scented shisha and called themselves Bohemian. I did not know—then—the things I know now. I thought he was my friend: the one I’d always seen, the one I’d always talked to over coffee. I thought him odd that day: I found him distracted, remote, and strangely—though indescribably—abstract. Our visit that day was strained: I could make little sense of him and what he found so amazing in the petals of a rose. After a while, we bade one another good-bye with promises to meet again. I left the café with him, walking in the direction of my own apartment. I turned—perhaps by sheer, stupid luck—and saw him, walking away from me, entranced by a rose. Something else drew his attention: something I did not see, and in looking at him, I something happen. He’d paused in front of a small boutique, one was infinitely familiar with. He’d simply walked, turned on his heel…and stepped into the window. Watching the scene in retrospect, I know what happened. The person I’d known—the young man so entranced by a rose—was not my friend. He was someone else. He was, as I know now, a reflection. He lived in the world we see on the face of a mirror, on the face of back-shadowed windows, reflecting the street, the city in front of them. When I saw him step into the window, I knew—though I couldn’t say then—that he was simply going home. I’ve seen my friend many times. I know that he was never fascinated by the petals of a rose, growing the other way. My friend has only seen roses from here, their spiral-arranged petals growing as they always do…this way rather than that way…and though I cherish my friend, and love him for his company, his jokes, and the long, long silences we share, I wish to meet his reflection again, and to—if possible—see a rose from the his world. * Okay, the idea that reflections are another world is not a new idea, and it’s one I’ve explored in fiction and quasi-fiction posts here on Renderosity. What is new—for me at least—is the way in which I was struck by a particular reflection. I snapped this picture on a random weekend with Corey—I can’t remember why I took it, though I’m fascinated by the human subject here. I did not see his face. I saw nothing to study, but in the glass window occupying his attention, a face is clearly seen. Yes, it’s his face: there’s no denying that…but in terms of odd fictional tales…what if the face seen is not the exact reflected face of a pedestrian on Broadway Avenue…but the face of someone else whose world can only be seen in ghost-like glimpses, moving across a pane of glass? (I'm sure my Muse has something to say on the subject.) As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all on the verge of a great weekend.