The doctor had called it Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Nina had called him an asshole. She didn’t care for labels. Just for the girl in the mirror. Oh, the irresistible, voluptuous girl in the mirror. Nina watched her intently, privileged to gaze upon her hypnotic beauty, the way she curled the end of her long, black hair around her finger, the coquettish kohl eyes with lashings of mascara, the hidden cheeky dimples as her soft pink lips slowly smiled.
Nina kept a close eye on her, held her stare as she brushed her hair, kissed her gently on the mouth, licking at her glassy tongue. They brushed their teeth together in an intimate silence; they read the same literature spread on identical beds.
The girl in the mirror matched Nina’s desires; they reached their happy conclusion at precisely the same moment, spurring one another on, seducing, teasing, arousing. Nina’s boyfriend, Raymond, had loved it at first, bending her this way and that, the mirror capturing unique angles like they were starring in their own sex show, different, kinky. But Nina hadn’t given a tiny damn, her eyes had ignored Raymond, erased him from the scene. It was all about the girl in the mirror, her perky breasts, her heavenly curves, the splendour, the perfection.
So Raymond had gone, and posted an anonymous letter to her doctor’s surgery, outlining Nina’s obsession, on his way out.
Nina had been upset, fat salty tears raced down her face, her voice caught in her hoarse throat as she tried to explain and ultimately failed. She’d ended up in a rage, stamping on a box of latex gloves, screaming a string of expletives and being escorted out of the building by a bulky, bald man who had laughed in her face. She would never be able to make them understand.
She cried herself to sleep that night, distraught, resigned to the fact that people just couldn’t be trusted. And as she finally drifted off into a peaceful slumber, the girl in the mirror stepped out from the glass, lightly stroked Nina’s hair and kissed her on the forehead.