I look in the mirror because I want to look in the mirror. You are looking too, this time. For years you pretended not to. Once, at a party, you pulled me into the middle room of the hosts' narrow, high-ceilinged apartment, the one with a bed in it and not much else and said, "Look, they have a mirror in the same place we have a mirror." And then I realized that you might be stealing a glance here and there. Now it's all out in the open. You look. I look. And we see ourselves looking. "I need to stop eating so much toast before bed," you tell me later, like you do almost every night. "Or my ass is never going to get any smaller."
"Look," I say, "I'm doing the trimming." Andrew Marvell had his mower. Why shouldn't I have a lopper? Snap. I'm making pictures of what I want to see: blue-gray roses bunched together, rolls of red nearly falling off the bed, the way your hair flops when you turn your head to the left. Snap. The heat is oppressive because it is coming from inside us. Snap. I keep on going because it looks like the right thing to do. Snap. Someone is going to have to sweep this mess off the sidewalk.