My boots are old now. They are still tight. They are good boots.
I wince, but get my other foot in. I hear voices from M’s room. There are no strange boots in the hall so, I walk over and peak in.
“Drink a glass of water before the bottle of wine and it will cancel out any negative side effects.”
It is M’s voice, but not his tone. I take a step deeper into the room.
“What about cigarettes?” M’s voice again. But, this time it sounds like M.
I check around the corner. M is standing in front of the mirror. The M in the mirror begins talking.
“Exhale out your nose and it won’t ever reach your lungs.”
I clear my throat. M turns around.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Consulting my doctor.” He moves to the left and motions to the mirror. The M in the mirror smiles. His hair is different, neater. He is wearing a lab coat. The M standing in front of me is shirtless. I jump back.
“What the fuck is that?”
M frowns. “My doctor.”
“That’s you in a lab coat,” then, in case he doesn’t grasp the severity of the situation I add, “in a fucking mirror.”
M nods. “I don’t trust doctors so, I decided to become one myself.”
“Uh huh.” I manage. I move closer to the mirror, eyeing the cheap plastic frame suspiciously.
“Is this some sort of magic mirror?” I ask. The M in the mirror takes a step sideways.
“Nope!” his voice calls from the other room. I walk back out.
I look in the bathroom. “Doctor” M waves at me from the bathroom mirror.
“Are you always there?” I ask. The M in the mirror shrugs.
“So, you can, like, see me when I’m in there?”
The M in the Mirror nods guiltily.
“He doesn’t judge!” M, the three-dimensional one, calls from his bedroom.
“I really don’t. You know. But, just a tip, if you keep scratching those hemorrhoids they’re only going to get worse.” He smiles, sympathetically.
I stare at the M in the mirror, slack jawed.
“It’s true!” M calls from the other room.
“I’m going to get some bread,” I manage to say.
“I’m just trying to help,” M in the mirror says.
“Yeah, he’s a really good doctor.” M says, emerging from his room.
“I’m going to get some bread…” I say. I open the door.
“I’m going to get some bread,” I say as I descend the stairs.
“I’m going to get some bread,” I say to the woman behind the counter.
“I don’t understand,” she says, in Russian.
“Me either,” I tell her.