She glanced over at him and then back down at the ashtray. He hadn’t seen her look up, his eyes fixed on the screen, thumbs twitching.

She stubbed her rollie out and then absentmindedly picked up the backy and started rolling another.

“Do you ever look at me and think, is that me?” she asked, trying to look nonplussed, but hoping this would engage him. “Because I look at you and feel like I see me sometimes”.

“What? No, I don’t get what you mean,” he said, gaze unmoving.

“Never mind”, she sighed and drew on the rollie. Blowing out smoke without having inhaled it, she slowly shifted her left foot from under her bum and stretched her legs out. She left them outstretched for a moment, inspected the hole in the toe of the tights on her right foot and then folded her legs back under her.

The breeze blew the curtains open a tad, letting in a shaft of sunlight. He put his hand up to shield the screen.

She left the rollie smoking on the ashtray and shifted her weight forward and stared intently at the screen, trying, again, to see what held his attention. Nothing.

She looked down, drew a sharp breath and tried again to explain her train of thought, “Sometimes I feel like your face is my face. That’s what I mean. I don’t know… like, I’m looking at my reflection.”

He didn’t look over.

“Don’t you ever get that?”


“Oh…”, she swallowed.

She withdrew and retreated back into her own thoughts, feeling further disconnected.

He hadn’t become her.

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