Broken Mirror

The Setup

Somewhere close by behind me, a pair of soft, muffled male voices start a discussion about the shape of the pond, the tadpoles that are about to be spawned, and, how fond someone's aunt was of dying her hair blond. I toy with the thought of turning around to check if they are the owners of the other vessels on the water, but the ridiculousness of their conversation puts me off. Instead, I slouch deeper into my foldable fishing chair and let their monotonous discourse relax me.

Relaxed disposition works well with my cover. I am a toy boat enthusiast, visiting Washington for the annual "Electronic Pet" Convention, which starts the day after tomorrow. I have done my best to blend in with the expected crowd of this event. I am wearing a pink, baggy T-shirt, oversized, tan, knee-long shorts, and black socks with white sneakers.

Today, two days before the Convention, the Gardens are nearly empty. It is a perfect day for introspection, the best strategy to prepare myself for tonight's mission. I lower my head and relax my mind.

Yet, something is amiss. Despite the tranquility of the water, the refined beauty of the neatly trimmed Gardens, and the lulling, soporific heat of the late summer afternoon, there is an awkward feeling of unsettledness at my temples that I cannot quite place. I sift through the information of my senses to find the cause. What do I see? What do I hear? What part of my sensory input could be contributing to this sudden discord?

It does not take me long to isolate the source. A voice. The voice is coming from the left, diagonally behind me. It is soft and enticing. It belongs to a woman.

The recognition gives me an adrenaline jolt. I struggle to quell my heartbeat as I try to focus on turning The Queen Mary around and setting in on a course back towards me. While she is puttering along, I stand up, place my control panel on my fishing chair, take out a bottle of spring water from my backpack, and turn casually to my left as I take a sip.

I see her right away. She is barely twenty feet away, wearing a light white summer dress with bright yellow flowers. Her hair is lighter and longer than four years ago. It is lifted up in a soft chignon with a classic weave accentuating her elegant neck and beautiful tiny ears. She is laughing, explaining something coquettishly to an athletic man in business casual clothes and reflective designer shades.

Instinctively, I look down, ensuring the visor of my hat hides my face, but that doesn't seem to be needed, because neither of the two is paying attention to anything else other than each other. I carefully look up again as I study the man. He is muscular and well-built. His face has a gritty roughness to it, possibly due to weather exposure or childhood chicken pox. His athletic body is complemented by classy business pants and a close-fitting tailored shirt. His blue designer shades, which are hard to miss, speak of refined taste. He is the exact opposite of her boring, timid, workaholic husband, whom I had gotten to know indirectly during the years of my affair with her.

My heart sinks at the thought that he is probably the next me, the next adulterous chapter in the disloyal married life of Marion Rosenthal. I try to convince myself that this immediate impression is just my jealousy speaking. He could be an acquaintance. She could be in Washington on a family trip. As if to disprove this, the man puts his hand around her waist, whispers something surreptitiously into her ear, and they share a brief, intimate kiss.

I sigh and do my best to disengage from the emotions rushing in. Marion belongs to my past, a passionate, tumultuous chapter that is now closed. Three years of pursuing her and one year of thrilling, clandestine encounters, ending abruptly with the event that constituted my exposure. In my mind, I had said my farewell, determined to give her a chance to have a faithful family life. Her present life, no matter what it is, should be of no consequence to me.