Notwithstanding the title, this is not a multipart story sneaking into the SSC under false pretences.

No disclaimers required. 480 words


Images In a Fractured Mirror I

She'd never liked that dressing table. Oh, yes she knew it was supposed to be an antique: Mike had 'mentioned' it endlessly. "Why pay for some overpriced veneer that we'll throw away in a few years when this will appreciate, honey."

Well, it might appreciate, but she didn't. It was big and lumpy, and the dark wood looked completely out of place in her pink-and-fluffy bedroom. And it didn't like her. She suspected it of deliberately messing up her reflection whenever she had to make up to look her very best.

Friday was a bad day. Not a thirteenth, but quite bad enough. She'd burnt his boiled egg at breakfast, the washing had reached a compromise regarding colour, the dustbin had mysteriously exploded and she'd broken a fingernail. Just another of those wretched days full of petty irritations, and now she'd got a spot: a zit: a little red blemish on her chin that she just *knew* was waiting to burst forth in all of its glory - probably right in the middle of their dinner party tonight. Mary stamped her foot and flung a handful of cotton wool at the mocking reflection in the dressing table mirror.

Now, everyone knows you can't fling cotton wool. It soars free and then emulates an ostrich stepping off a tall building. Mary was puzzled and concerned, with that curious depth of perception one acquires in the long, long fraction of a second before something nasty happens. The cotton wool ball lumbered through the air with a worryingly solid determination, separating into its component parts of cotton wool and small glass scent bottle inches before impact.

"Chink!" The scent bottle tapped at the mirror and for one, two heart stopping seconds nothing happened: then, just as Mary was exhaling in relief, "tink!" - a neat split ran diagonally across the mirror. She nervously draped a bathrobe over it and hurried downstairs to look up 'glue' in the Yellow Pages.

The dinner party went off quite well. Conversation had slowed rather during the main course as the guests chewed slowly at the fillet steak and there had been a rather unfortunate moment with Mr Franklin's false teeth and the sticky toffes pudding, but by the time the guests had gone and Mike and Mary retired upstairs, Mary was feeling quite relaxed. Until Mike handed over her bathrobe.

Mike stared, Mary blushed and little illuminated cartoon arrows appeared all round her head flashing "guilty".

Mike settled Mary over his lap for a strikingly memorable lecture on the care and maintenance of antiques and try as she might, she protested her innocence in vain. With skirt furled up and panties rolled down, the smacking and the squealing commenced, and as Mary bounced and yelled, through the tears welling up in her eyes she could still see that the horrid, horrid dressing table was laughing at her....


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