The Crack in the Mirror

The Crack in the Mirror

A whiff of his cologne catches her nose as he slips into the seat next to her. Ralph Lauren Polo Sport. Masculine. Rugged. A hint of sensitivity. Abby slowly started to unbutton her blouse, subtly popping each button like a child sneaking maraschino cherries off of his mother's freshly baked cake.

The sex was hot, passionate and sweaty. No surprises there. There's not much else to expect in a cramped washroom stall on a moving train. He had surprising control over his balance, managing to stay in position as the compartment bounced around from side to side. By the time they finished, only fifteen minutes remained of the trip. All in all, it was a good choice. Abby had even considered doing it with him again. Then he spoke.

"So, umm, maybe I could, umm, get your number? We could go out sometime."

* * * * * * *

One of her favorite songs is playing. Billie Jean by Michael Jackson. She was listening to it when her little addiction began.

He had shaggy straw colored hair. Not too long; not too short. He must have gelled it because it stuck up in that perfect way that only gel lets you achieve, with a few pieces falling in front of his eyes. He was tall. His legs scrunched up together in an effort to fit into the seat. His arms reached up into the air, stretching themselves out as his legs could not, revealing a small patch of rippled abs. Within seconds, the scent of his cologne drifted over to her seat. Cool Water by Davidoff. She turned her music off and subtly brushed her arm against his leg.

"You smell absolutely amazing."

Abby could never figure out what had gotten into her that day. She suspected that it was the combination of a particularly long ride ahead, coupled with the fight that her and her parents had just before she boarded, and merged with that irresistible scent of his cologne. But somehow she found herself in the train's gritty bathroom, pushed up against the wall by him.

He was her first. Mark Roscoe. He wasn't her actual first, but her first ‘train-boy', as she like to call them. It was fun. She had to travel back and forth between her home and school at least once every month. Going from Ottawa to Toronto takes about four hours, depending on which train you land on. The whole process of selecting the right person and capturing his attention could take over an hour, not including the time spent in the washroom if she managed to succeed. It was an excellent way to pass the time.

Over the next few months, Abby came up with a multitude of excuses to visit her family.

"Mommy, I miss you and Daddy."

"I have this massive paper to work on and I can't concentrate here."

"Jess says that she wants me to meet her new boyfriend."

"I left my favorite sweater in my room. No, you can't just mail it. It's Gucci. I'll have to come and get it myself."

Toronto to Ottawa. Ottawa to Toronto. Four hours each way times two trips per month times three months. Forty-eight hours. That gave her more than enough time to perfect her technique. Some people might assume that there's no skill required in getting a little action on the train. They are wrong.

It's not that she was fussy. You'd be amazed at how quickly your standards decline when you are searching for that special someone to engage in a little extra-curricular fun with on a train. For starters, not everyone wants to. There are so many excuses: a book to read, homework to complete, a presentation to write; but they all mean the same thing - he has a girlfriend/wife/significant other. After a couple of rather humiliating rejections - one involving the man demanding to be seated in another train due to her uncontrollable hormones - Abby discovered the perfect indicator: a man's cologne.

It was astonishing how easily a man's cologne could predict his likelihood to engage in sexual escapades with a random stranger on the train. The basics were obvious. Immediately forget any man wearing any sort of cologne like Stetson or Instinct by Coty or any other brand that is endorsed by a celebrity. These men have a woman in their lives. This is their attempt to recreate their men into celebrities like Mathew McConaughey or David Beckham. Absolutely pathetic. Abby hated people who changed themselves into someone else for another person. It was stupid.

She put her hands to her newly colored hair and felt for any fly-a-ways. Perfect. She was ready. He would be boarding any minute. She glances out the window, pretending to be absorbed in the scene playing out before her. That poor old woman. No one to help her with her baggage. She shudders at the thought of becoming old and unattractive. From the reflection in the window pane she can see him saunter over to the seat next to her. She pretends that she doesn't notice, but the smell of his cologne makes its way over to her. Pi by Givenchy. Her resolve fades quickly and she reconsiders ignoring him.

"Hello again stranger."

* * * * * * *
They met right after she graduated from university. She snapped up a job at a small Toronto newspaper. It paid well, but she chose to live in Kitchener, a smaller town about an hour and a half away. She told her parents that it was to keep the cost of living down. Truthfully, it just gave her the chance to ride the train even more. By this point in time, her addiction was becoming overwhelming. She needed to get that fix. A train ride twice a day seemed like the perfect solution to her problem.

Abby was on her way back to Kitchener after her second week at the paper. Everything was going well; she was just exhausted. She longed for the days of taking a few days to write up a paper or report - journalism was much more fast-paced. She sat down in one of the window seats and turned on her mp3 player, determined to enjoy at least a few minutes of relaxation. She had no energy for a hook-up today.

A couple of seats in front of her, four men sat down, drinking beers and telling jokes. They knew the conductor well enough to be joking around with him. One of them looked over in her direction, but Abby fixed her gaze out to the window. A few minutes later the intoxicating smell of Pi floated over to her nose. She inhaled deeply, savoring the woody scent. There was a hint of tangerine. Her heart raced as she imagined the type of guy who would be wearing such a sensual cologne. Tall, dark, and handsome with a 5 o'clock shadow emerging on his lower face. Piercing brown eyes. Full, sensuous lips, curved into a gentle smirk. She felt a light tap on her shoulder.

"Excuse me miss, but I figured that you could probably use a drink. You look like you need a little somethin' to relax."

She could feel the coarseness of his hands through the flimsy fabric of her blouse. His touch felt like sandpaper smoothing away the splinters of an unfinished piece of wood. She loved it.

The aroma of his cologne continued to penetrate her nostrils, assaulting her senses.

"Miss? Excuse me, Miss?"

She slowly turned her head and was met with the pair of piercing brown eyes. His face was inches away from hers and she could almost feel the stubble stretching across his face. He was perfect. She composed herself.

"I'm sorry. I just got caught up in my music. Wicked Games by Chris Issak. Get's to me every time."

"I noticed you sitting over here. You look a little stressed. I figured that you could use a drink."

"Thanks. You're absolutely right. It's been a tough week. My name's Abigail by the way, but people call me Abby."

"Abigail. I like that. No need to shorten it. Abigail sounds just perfect. My name's Tristan, Tristan Zabel."

"Well Tristan, I'd like to thank you for the drink. Care to sit down here with me?"

"I would, but that's my stop. Nice meeting you though."

And then he was gone. She followed his progress as he scooped up his briefcase with one hand and headed over to the exit. Outside, he was met by a woman with long blond hair. She was dressed in an expensive looking black suit, probably Versace. She greeted Tristan with a long kiss. Abigail felt like throwing up. She ran to the washroom as the train pulled out of the station. Guelph. He lived in Guelph.

The next few months passed by quickly. Abigail saw Tristan every day on her way home from work. It was a long and tedious task. She pulled out all of her best moves. Each night he would come and sit down next to her, asking what she was listening to.

"I Want You to Want Me, by Cheap Trick."

"Unfaithful, by Rhianna."

"My Favorite Mistake, by Sheryl Crow."

She did everything that she could think of, but nothing seemed to work. The other day, he went to go to the washroom. She thought that this was her chance; that he had finally cracked. But his words destroyed her hopes.

"Would you mind keeping an eye on my wallet for a minute? Thanks Abigail."

Frustrated, she decided to use the time to search for information about the mysterious blond woman. She was always there when he got off at his stop; always waiting to give him a kiss. She hated her.

A picture of the woman, his desired type of woman, lay in the front flap of his wallet. She was pretty, even Abigail had to admit that. Her long blond hair, cut with precision, suited her face perfectly, with edgy layers starting at her chin. She had aqua eyes, blue green like the color of an uncared for pool, filling with algae. Her skin was flawless, blemished only by the tiniest mole on the corner of her upper right lip. Before Tristan came back, she had already replaced the photograph, and turned on her music once more. He didn't say anything to her when he returned. And when he got off at his stop, the beautiful blond woman was waiting for him once again.

All of her energy was being poured into getting Tristan to sleep with her. The other day, her boss at work asked her if anything was wrong.

"Abby, er, Abigail, could I have a moment?"

"Sure Hank."

"I've noticed that your column seems to have developed a certain sort of theme lately. Don't get me wrong, but I'm not sure if our readers really appreciate hearing about types of cologne, makeover ideas, and provocative songs. That's not really our target demographic."

"Okay. But . . ."

"Just think about it Abby, umm, Abigail. I'll give you another couple of days to fix up your current one. We'll just run one of Forester's old ones. Nothing to worry about."

Her day just wasn't going very well. She had never had this many problems landing a guy, and now work was going badly too. When she got on the train, she went to her usual seat and turned to face out the window. An older woman was having trouble getting her luggage onto the train.

"Hello again stranger."

It was him. She could tell by the smell. Pi. God's gift to women everywhere. She inhaled deeply and turned to face him. The look on his face told her she had done well.

"Hello Tristan. How have you been? I've already picked up a nice cold beer for you. Sleeman's Pale Ale, no ice."

"Abigail. You look stunning today. I'm just running to the washroom. If I'm not back in a few minutes, come look for me. Ok?"

Her breath caught in her throat. This was it. All of these months of preparations were finally paying off. It didn't matter that she could lose her job. It didn't matter that the blond woman had met him once again just yesterday. Today, he wanted her. And he would get what he wanted.

The walk to the washroom seemed to take forever. One foot placed slowly in front of the other. She didn't even notice the knowing stares that followed her along the trek. Nothing mattered anymore. She was finally going to get her fix.

The washroom seemed dingier than ever. For something like this, something that took so long to happen, this wasn't the right place. The floors were covered in multicolored carpet, hiding stains from the past. The walls were composed of a sort of grimy, gritty, grey texture. And the mirror. She looked at herself in the mirror as they went at it. She could see his back, in all of its tanned perfection, muscles rippling through his skin. Her hands ran across the smooth skin, trying to memorize each tiny pore. Her face was scrunched up in awe, as if she had never done this before. And there was a crack. A crack in the mirror. Right over her face. It started at the tip of her forehead and ran along to the upper right corner of her mouth. Something wasn't right.

He was finished. She struggled to remember the last few minutes. Everything became a blur.

"You were amazing Abigail. I always knew you'd be. I have to go to my seat now, but we'll catch-up again tomorrow."

He left her in the stall. She knew this was her cue to fix up her hair and go back to her seat, acting as though nothing had happened. But the mirror. Something wasn't right. And so Abigail did something very unusual for herself.

She followed him: past her seat, and into the next compartment. She was well behind him so he didn't notice. He sat in one of the four-seat compartments. Next to him was a little girl, and across, a young boy. Neither one looked older than four. And in the seat across from him diagonally, there she sat. The beautiful blond woman. Those aqua eyes, the layered blond hair, the tiny mole by her lips - Abigail lightly touched her lips. She remembered the crack in the mirror. Abigail felt the freshly cut edges of her newly dyed hair. Something wasn't right. He was sitting with her. Tristan was sitting with her. But she was standing right here.

Abigail looked at the woman. She looked at her until the train stopped at the Guelph station. Tristan never looked back at her when he got off. But she looked at him, and at her.

That night Abigail looked at herself in the mirror. She saw the same reflection that she saw leaving the train with Tristan, only there was a crack. Abigail looked into the mirror and saw the same reflection that she saw in the cracked mirror on the train.

The next day, Abigail drove to work, her cracked reflection following her in the rearview mirror.