Being comparatively light that day, the hastiness of the sun creeping its rosy fingers across the sill knocked fast sense into the figure lying with his arm strewn across the table, who, when raising his face to meet the streaming rays, squinted and scrunched his countenance in a variety of different ways, and who raised his eyebrows to and fro, as if he wished to recount something. By stretching his loose hand further down the surface, he came in contact with a vessel, dripping dry its contents onto the quilted floor, and he immediately drew up. He brought the hand to his forehead, and rubbed it generously, to see if he was able to bring more sense back into himself, and to clear away his misty vision. His sight was as misty as ever; there lay no reason to rub anymore!
This fellow, with the edge of his collar flung open, and the sides of his sleeves wet and miserable, was the kind easily stricken by a pall of sorrow, and being also the kind to have difficulty dismissing it, he used more convenient means to dull his mental discernment, and lulling himself into a half sleep, felt perfectly content by it. It seemed so, until he should wake again, and then all the night's activities would come tumbling down on him. There; the room was taking shape now, and he was able to perceive the fallen vase at the side of the room, which he must have tripped over the night before while doing a jig across the room with his empty glass. Setting the clumsy thing upright, he spotted beside it, an overturned mirror. That is strange, he thinks to himself, fondling agitatedly his wet sleeves and scratching the bottom of his chin: a mirror, here! I ought not, he thinks to himself; ought not ever to have a rendezvous alone again, if it takes three days of tidying up for half an hour of bliss, and even more time to recall who he is. The image of his talking to his reflection fondly, as he raised the mirror before him and winked at times into it to ask if the face peering back at him were free on a Sunday night or how he genuinely felt a familiarity for it, as if they were long lost soulmates that had found each other at last, flashed through his head. Very well, he thinks again. Though the clean-up would be a hassle, but it's indefinitely healthy for one to release his repressed emotions once in awhile. Good for the soul, and the heart, he adds aloud, before reaching for the mirror. It was at this moment that a perturbing 'riiiiing!' rang across the room, and almost dropping the mirror and his pants, he bounded across the room for the source.
The voice rang into his head, loud and clear, before he had the time to put the ringer to his ear;
"Hey Japan, it's not that early right? And so because I've been ringing since last night, and you wouldn't pick up, I thought that I'd try again today, just in case you were busy, because I have some VERY important news that, if I don't tell you, would not be so important anymore."
'Right,' he wanted to reply, 'because everything you say is important'.
But before he could respond with a, 'go on,' the other, having no need for encouragement, like lightning, pressed on in an inhumane tempo.
"Of course, as I was saying…" and he didn't catch the rest.
While the voice in his ear began spewing out sentences at such an incredible speed that he feared his intellect was not going to be able to catch up, he turned over the object in his hand and looked curiously into the glass. Behind him, the wall had the picture of a tree, with little red flowers dotting the lithe brown branches that expanded to the four corners of the paper, and further, since a branch or two seemed obscured by the frame, and had the quality of seeming as if they regretted to ever being drawn there. This project, although plain, had unusual sentimental value to him, and he stood placidly breathing into the reflection, and reflecting himself on how much effort he had spent onto it, and how the sun slighting in from the blinds and casting a gloomy shadow across the front made it more pleasant to look at. It was this silence that caused the caller's end to grow quiet, and at last; 'hey, you there?' was uttered through the line.
"I'm here and I heard every word. What were you saying about the world meeting?"
Something in the reflection wavered, and he leaned proximately into the unmoving background. It struck him as a flash of red, and it had crossed by the doorway leading to the hallway, stationed directly to the left of his painting. He took a fleeting glance behind him, and felt the atmosphere of the room chilling and uninviting.
"The world meeting? I wasn't talking about that, as I was saying about the mega hero that will be created to save me from my economic crisis…"
There it was again, and it was unmistakable! Either the alcohol had an effect more torpid than he had imagined, or he had lost his head; but he could not but question his eyes. Was that a figure that had scurried along? He acknowledged the caller with a few 'uh huhs,' and 'of courses', before hurriedly gathering another look behind him, and standing up.
"That's all very well. You must give England a call, he would be dying to hear this. I'll be hanging up now; not one more word now! Yes, yes, very good, and good morning to you."
The phone was set down, and mirror in hand, he turned towards the hallway.
On the ground, an unfamiliar object beckoned for him to approach, and he noted to himself, that in all of his years wandering the house and uncovering forgotten trinkets here and there, he could not recall from his memory, even slightly, this item.