Reflection

 Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is: write a story involving a mirror. 

Today's tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

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Reflection

by Val Mulller

The guitar twang echoes in the house, shaking the picture frames. I shake my head to the lyrics. Something about heartbreak and loneliness or a pickup truck or boots. That's all they're ever about.

"It's not true," Evan would say if he weren't up in his room, blasting country music. It's all he's loved from the first time he heard it playing at Steak House of Texas one vacation. Of course, we live nowhere near Texas, and country music's not so big here. I detest it. So of course, he loves it.

The chords grow louder, then quieter. He must have stepped out of his room, then closed the door again. But of course he didn't cut the music.

I think back to me in high school. All goth, all metal. Everyone I know wanted to be either a guitarist or a drummer. But country? We would rather have been dead than to have listened to--

"Dad."

I startle, turn and stand. Evan is there, waiting for me to notice him. It's not like I don't live with the kid. I see him everyday. But I swear he grew a foot since the last time he went up to his room.

"Dad?"

He stands wearing one of my old flannels, but it is buttoned and tucked, not the grunge style I used to wear.

"Dad?"

I shake myself to attention. "Evan."

He looks sheepish. It is money. I know the look. I lived the look as a teenager.

"I was wondering..."

"How much?" I sigh. 

"It's for a movie. Me and--"

I fight back a smile. "Are you taking Jess?"

Before he answers, time freezes. I look at him like I am looking at myself in a mirror. I was him, decades ago. My flannel hung defiantly from my sleeves, buttons uncuffed. Ripped jeans and Doc Martens where his fit jeans and cowboy boots stand. And where I stand? It was my father, always in a button-down, half the time wearing a tie, always ready to pull out a wallet from the pants the wallet had worn thin. 

In Evan's embarrassed smirk, I see my own pride in having a date, my shame in asking Dad for money, my embarrassment at letting him into my love life.

"Yeah, Jess is coming," he says, looking up while bowing his head. I know he hopes I don't ask any more.

"Be careful," I hear my dad say as I hand my son the bills.  I know they say every generation is bad, but I know we were truly worse than Evan and his pals. They are more naive, but they are good at heart.

He reaches for the money, and in the mirror image I see my own hand snatching the money from my dad, glad I have made it past the Inquisition of two questions.

Evan goes upstairs. The music grows loud briefly as he opens his door, then quiets again. I sit back on the couch. I am reading the news on my phone, but I cross my right leg over my left, the way my father did when he read the paper. I look at my reflection in the glass cover of the fireplace.

"Thanks, dad," I whisper. 

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The Spot Writers–Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/