You Might Find This Hard To Believe

but then again...

“You might find this hard to believe, but reading this book will allow you to walk into mirrors.”

This is what the strip of paper wedged between the pages said. Why would anyone leave such a curious message? Flipping through the rest of it, I found nothing else as uncanny or anything that could explain the meaning of this. It had to be some figure of speech. Walking into mirrors—a fancy way of referring to self-reflection. I would add it to my collection of self-help books.

I was walking around in the rain, wondering where I could quietly inspect the book I had just bought in the used bookstore. My head hurt.

On Morton Street, I went into the Country Caboose Cafeteria, and straight into the restroom, where, with shaky hands, I took out the dark vial and my credit card, made two neat lines of iron filings on the mirror top, and snorted them. Instant relief. I wiped my nose, checked my lipstick, and went out to the dining room. Patsy Cline was crooning through the speakers, and the staff wore red checks and yellow neckerchiefs. A server was coming down the aisle with two coke floats, two slices of apple pie, and a piece of blueberry cheesecake. On another table, I saw fried chicken and biscuits with some kind of gravy. Down home fare.

There was an unoccupied booth, which I slid into. The coffee came fast, and it was not half bad. Then I unwrapped the book and opened it. Its title was 'The Spectral Path'. Intriguing, but I failed to see what this had to do with mirrors. Chapter one was called, 'The Purpose of Conversation'. Judging from the cover, I was sure I had bought a self-help book, but this was about a woman wandering around in the rain with a very strong headache, looking for a place to sit down to read. I frowned and looked for publishing information but found none. The woman went into the bathroom, came out again, and sat down while a male patron looked on. He was blond and very handsome. Making eye contact, he smiled and got up as if he were going to leave, but came to her table instead.

Instinctively, I looked around the cafe, and sure enough, there was a blonde man sitting in the corner seat by the window, but he hadn’t noticed me since he was reading a book of his own. He looked up for a moment to motion to the server for more coffee. I was having trouble believing all this, and I was confused. Would he come over, like in the book? Should I keep reading? Should I talk to him? The blond man turned page after page, and seemed to be in a state of deep concentration, which made me feel fairly certain that he would not see me. I kept reading:

                   “Excuse me for interrupting your reading. I couldn’t help noticing you; so few people read these days.”

            The man’s voice was velvety and alluring; and close up, true, he dazzled me.

                    “That’s okay. What are you reading?”

                    “Oh, something I found in a flea market this morning.”

                    “Can I see it?”

           He handed it to her, smiling. 
           
           She gasped as she read the title.

I looked up again from my reading. 

The man was smiling at me.