Spotlight Search
She’s in town on business. Strict business—her briefcase an anchor, a stiletto dipped in street gum. She watches her rigid reflection flash back at her in streaks. Darkened outline, flyaways stuck straight up in helium rub. Hand almost purple from the cool touch of subway pole.
The man beside her wears a dress shirt two sizes two small, sleeves rolled up tight around his forearms. Thick gold watch jeering. Their hands are three inches apart on the pole, if she were to guess. A wedding band the same garish tint as the watch. She melts into strangeness, glimpsing her reflection like a forbidden token at the base of a well. Two of her bodies spawn into the subway car—one barely visible, arriving in flares, the other solid and fluorescent under the recessed lights.
When she was much younger, the mirror was confirmation of a peculiar reality. She’d drop a wet towel around her ankles and study her frame from contorted angles. Head turned over shoulder, the deep line snaking up her back. Close thighs, eyelashes, wine colored veins spreading across wrists. Mouth like a river, ridged teeth. She’d exit, then reenter the room, bare as ever, angling to catch her own eye. Sometimes she succeeded—a brief, startling moment, recognizing nothing physical. A stranger. Then, she’d raise a careful hand to her cheek. Sometimes she’d blush at the confirmation of sameness.
Those private moments layered like silt. The quiet rush of discovery packed into neat sediment within—even drove her to bold impulses in public. She thrilled at the cursory gazes of people in transit. The low stakes dice roll across a silent car, certain that no paths could intersect. She inserted herself in the slim space of an eye gaze with frequent intensity. She knew the potential of contact like this: danger, obsession, complete understanding. The tightly bound spectrum of possibility.
Soon enough she would walk into the office, sterilized of all spontaneity, and sit in a cream cubicle. Watch her unmanicured fingers fly across a perforated keyboard. Her monitor might shut off unexpectedly, in which case she’d be left with a momentary glimpse of her backlit face. She would not recognize any part of her reflection. Though this time, she wouldn’t feel the thrill pinprick her thighs and neck. She’d think of the man in his too-tight uniform and catch his eye in the back of her mind, she’d bare all her teeth and make the sort of noise that only releases in birth or mourning. He might stare down at his gold plated jewelry, din echoing, and recognize his warped image, hers too, in the flickering, mind-sealed panes.
Sofia Bagdade is a writer from New York City. Her work has appeared in Gone Lawn and Bright Flash Literary Review. Her flash fiction piece “Lady Luck” was selected the winner of Lucky Jefferson‘s 2025 Poetry and Prose Contest. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.
