MargenThe bathroom mirror began to lag by a second. I would smile and my reflection took an instant too long to smile back, like an actor who has missed his cue.
At first it was funny. I put it down to tiredness, to bad light, to that hour when your face is no longer quite your own.
Last night I raised my hand and my reflection waited. One, two, three seconds with its arm hanging down while I held mine up, absurdly, against the glass. When it finally raised it, it did so slowly, with an intention that was not mine.
That was when I understood it was not imitating me. It was warning me of what I was about to do next. And today, when I walked into the bathroom, the mirror already had its hands around its throat before I came anywhere near.