Mirror, Mirror, Off the Wall – Part 2

At last (the Husband believes), The Wife – his Wife – has a beautiful, large French Mirror with which to adorn her wall, and further France-ify her room, and check both her hair AND her outfit. Together. At the same time.

But this Mirror will never make it to the wall. Because it’s not about The Mirror: it’s about The Frame.



They arrive home at dinnertime. “Oh, I’m starving,” she says. It’s been a long day. He leans The Mirror against the wall. Clearly, she doesn’t want to deal with it till later.

“No problem,” he replies. “I’ll make dinner tonight.”

“Thank you,” she sighs wearily. The Hunt is always draining. “But could you bring The Mirror in here? Just so I can see it.” He does, then heads for the kitchen. Then:

“Can you bring me the glass cleaner and a rag?” she asks.

“Uh,” he begins, “I thought you said –“

“I just want to clean it up a bit. Just real quick,” she explains.

"OK, sure,” he says, bringing her the items, then heading back for the kitchen, still not clueing in.

“And a screwdriver.”

Now he gets it. It’s no longer dinnertime: it’s Project Night.

********

After quickly going through the motions of “cleaning The Mirror,” she flips it over, face down on the carpet, cleaning rag cast aside, glass cleaner pushed under the table, hunger forgotten. She grabs the screwdriver. Like a one-woman pit crew, she deftly works her way around all four sides, prying up rusty nails and old staples. One of them snaps. “Pliers,” she says. “You get the bad ones.” And without breaking stride, she moves to the next fastener, while The Husband, the rookie, has at it.

“No, no, no,” she says immediately, “you’re doing it wrong, you’re gonna lose it.”

“No, I’m not,” he assures her. “I’ve done this a million times. I’m a guy.”

“You’re gonna –“ the pliers slip off, and he nearly knocks her in the teeth.

“– lose it,” she glares.

He hands her the pliers. She pulls out the shard.

In moments, the backing is freed and removed. She picks up The Frame, turning it over and around, eyeing it thoroughly. “Oh, yeah,” she says, “it’s in great shape.”

The Husband picks up the backing.

“You can toss that,” she says, not even looking at it.

“But how will you support the mirror?” he says, still not clueing in.

“The what?”

Now he gets it. The Mirror will never again reflect a human face. It is now referred to only as “the glass.” It will spend eternity in the garage. Or, on trash day, it will . . . (the poor thing: I can’t even say it.)

Meanwhile, back in the house. A few turns around the room, some re-arranged furniture and relocated wall hangings, and The Frame has found a home.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“Gorgeous,” he responds admiringly, once again. “I had my doubts, but you certainly know what you’re doing.”

“I told you,” she reminds him simply, once again. “Oh, I’m starving,” she says.