The face that’s looking back at me from the mirror looks good. That smile! That collar! Quite nice to behold. But what’s with that stain on the mirror? I haven’t seen it before. It looks like a speck of something or other. I’ll just wipe it off.
I rub at it firmly. But it turns out there’s no speck there. Nothing. Still, I’m wiping something off—it’s paint. How come I didn’t notice this before? My smile is only painted on the mirror!
Painted, just like the rest of my face. It’s all paint. There’s no escape, I have to keep wiping. I’ve wiped off my smile. I wipe off my nose. I wipe off my cheeks, eyes, ears, hair, even my collar.
Done. I’ve wiped the paint off the mirror. And what’s underneath? A mirror.
I can finally look at myself. Evidently, I’m a lizard. I have shiny skin. I have eyes that nothing will escape. But best of all is my tongue: agile, flexible, sprightly, and forked. It’s a real joy, a tongue like that.
I touch the mirror with my tongue. And guess what? More paint peels away. I lick away at it and something very strange becomes apparent: I’m not a lizard! My former, human face is peering out from beneath the paint.
“Hello again,” says the face.
“Isn’t life wonderful,” I reply.
We pass a moment or two in silent reflection.
“Right, time to go to work,” says the face eventually.
So off I go. It’s cold and muddy, and I haven’t a care in the world.
