Don had one morning ritual: don't look in the mirror before breakfast. Wisdom, after a barber Incident. One mirror. No mercy.
This morning, he broke the rule. It would turn out to be horrible. He looked up, half-asleep, and said "what's up" to the reflection out of pure muscle memory.
The reflection did not say "what's up" back. The reflection was busy being someone else entirely.
"Wait a minute." Don leaned closer, the way people lean toward a parking ticket, hoping proximity will make it say something different. It didn't. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."
He considered several explanations, a prank, bad dream, mid-life reincarnation with terrible timing, and settled, as men his age tend to do, ignore it and see if it resolves itself. He got dressed. His clothes still fit, which he found weirdly reassuring, like finding out you're okay another divorce.
Outside, the world had opinions. the one who communicated in grunts, walked away like Don owed him money. The barista added a "sir" with the crisp, over-formal caution usually reserved for caution. A parked cop watched him for a few minutes with the focused patience of a man filling out a report in advance.
Don had been alive 80 years and had never once been tracked by a stranger's eyes like this. It was, he realized with the dawning horror of a man checking his own math, familiar. Not to him. To what he'd said about people who apparently got this same treatment.
"I've said that before," Don said out loud, to absolutely nobody, which is the only way men his kind ever admit anything. "About other people."
He went home a changed pace, not fast, not slow, the pace of a man recalculating his whole personality in real time. Back at the mirror, he studied the stranger looking back at him with something new. Curiosity, with the volume just barely turned up.
"So," Don said. "Who am I going to become tomorrow?"
The universe, unhelpfully, declined to respond.
Don's rule... never look in the mirror before breakfast. This morning, he broke it.
He glanced up, half asleep, muttered "what's up" out of habit... and the mirror had other plans.
"Wait a minute." He leaned in. "Oh, no you've gotta be kidding me."
He got dressed anyway. Clothes still fit. Small mercies.
Outside, the neighborhood had opinions. His neighbor crossed the street. The barista added a very careful "sir."
A parked cop watched him for four blocks like he was filling out a report in advance.
80 years old, and nobody had ever looked at him like that. Then it hit him... he'd said things. Online, and at speeches. About people who got the same look every single day.
"I've said that before," Don said. "About other people."
Back at the mirror, he studied the stranger staring back.
"So," Don said. "Who am I going to become tomorrow?"
The universe... declined to respond..
People who talk trash about minorities never once picture themselves on the receiving end. It's always someone else's mannerisms that's "too much," someone else's name that's "difficult to pronounce," someone else's faith that's "suspicious," someone else's skin that gets a second look at the register. They'll crack the joke, share the meme, and never once ask what it costs the person standing three feet away who has to smile through it because saying something costs them more than it costs the dumb guy. That's the whole scam of prejudice: it's free for the person doing it and expensive for everyone else. Don didn't understand that math until the mirror did it for him. Most never get the mirror treatment… And so it goes