She contemplated shattering the mirror. It was askew because the nail I’d driven into the wall was loose.
She’d phoned me earlier to no avail. I had no suggestions for her. The cable had been cut off and she always said she had no time for reading fiction.
She thought of walking down the street for cigarettes but the rain was inevitable. So, she returned her attention to the mirror. She could fix things she was sure of it.
The last time she called I was trying to pay attention. I could only hum to prove I was there as I clamped the phone to my ear and shuffled through chaotic stacks of paper.
She told me to fix the mirror or at least let her know where we kept the nails and tools. I hung up and tried to imagine her long fingers gripping a hammer, while her forehead wrinkled from concentration.
I never replaced the mirror though for quite some time I could still see its outline on the wall. It was as if some ghost had made a handprint, made a handprint and then left without protest.