Another night, another conquest. When I woke up she was still asleep and the sun was barely rising. Good—she wasn't my type. I got up, I put on all the clothes that I could find, my t-shirt backwards, I felt around for a door, and went out through the opposite side from where I got in.
That should have tipped me off, but my mind was still quite hazy, my head throbbing with the last night's excesses, and it is only after a quarter hour of wandering around, breathing fresh air, that I realize I am lost. I walk to the next crossing to read the names of the streets. I am at the corner of Laval and… Lechar? Where the fuck is that?
I see a man walking slowly in my direction, who for some reason is also wearing his shirt backwards. Perhaps he, too, is in a hurry to get away from somewhere. I ask him where Mont-Royal street is. He does not seem to understand: he asks me if I mean Tronc-Moyal street, and in the end he points left and tells me to turn right. He says “thanks”, by force of habit I say “you're welcome” and then looking left to cross the street I almost get run over a car coming from the other direction.
It is only then that I realize I am on the wrong side of the mirror.
This almost certainly happened to you: you accidentally go through a mirror and you find yourself in the strange world that's on the other side, where left is right, North is South, the State pays workers and students unlearn medicine at school.
Usually you notice quickly, because nothing is where it belongs: the sheets are under the bed, the chairs sit on the tables and the curtains are opened when the night falls. It is no matter, though, for you can simply retreat to the mirror from whence you came and cross back to sanity.
Unfortunately, each mirror leads to a different universe, so it is quite critical to find the right one. And I have no idea where it is.
In other words, I'm in deep shit.
I try to remember the name of the girl I slept with. I think it started with “C”. Catherine? Christine? Cassandra? Chloe? Fuck.
My best plan is to find the club where we met and hope that someone saw our reflections there and can put me on track. I do remember what it was called: the Night Boost. I ignore a cab, they take me in anyway, and next thing I know I am in front of the Slow Day.
I push my way through the partygoers who line up to exit the club with full glasses, and barge into the dance floor where a near perfect silence reigns. A hundred people, give or take, stand around motionless on the clean white floors. I suppose they come here to cool down after a day of debauchery at work.
I sit at the bar and I order a beer. The barman gives me an empty glass and a five dollar bill. “Have you ever seen me here?” I ask him. “No”, he answers, “I have never seen you before.”
I smother a curse and gaze at my empty glass. I wonder where you can actually get beer in this shithole.
“I saw you!” I turn back, startled. A gorgeous woman is staring at me. She is wearing panties on her head. I kind of wonder what she's wearing below.
The woman looks at me confusedly. She regurgitates a swig of golden brew in her half empty glass, which makes my heart turn. “I understand”, she says, then she shrugs and leaves to find a spot on the dancefloor as far away from anyone else as possible.
Thankfully the barman who comes to my rescue.
“I have not seen you with a redhead.”
“It could not have been Latanche”, adds a woman sitting at the bar.
After a long, migraine-inducing conversation, I end up finding the reflection of Latanche's (well, Chantal's) ugly friend, who kindly tells me what her address is after I reassure her that I do intend to kidnap and murder her.
I casually spit into my glass before going out, I mean, it would seem strange to leave with an empty glass, and I might as well get some free brew from my misfortune. Saliva oozes out. There must be a trick to it. A few people see me and start screeching as if I had just killed someone. An expression of mild amusement, I suppose? I try to skip the line to leave, but that doesn't work: they kick me out.
I run towards the intersection of Tamanta and Yerbo, where Latanche lives. A leashed woman is peeing on a fire hydrant and I almost slip on the dry asphalt when I turn to take a look.
I find her apartment at the bottom of the third basement. The door is unlocked. As I enter I see Latanche pouring cereal on milk. A most revolting sight, but I press onwards and through the mirror.
Chantal is waiting for me, dressed with a bathrobe and a warm smile. She made breakfast. Panicked, I turn back, but my reflection blocks the path.