there's someone else in the reflection. it's jorty, but not quite, and he's grinning. you're brave enough to look closer. his hair is naturally ginger. you're only able to tell because his roots have grown out. it's dyed black with a man-made mallen streak in the fringe, and his eyes, they stare deep into yours. it's almost like he can see right through you. eyes. the windows to the soul. they're a deep brown, rimmed with dark circles due to the lack of sleep, and his right pupil is notably larger than the other. how positively bowie of him. you can't tell if it's from heavy drug use or getting knocked in the socket by his father as a child.
you close your eyes, unable to look at him any longer. however, just like derren brown, he's attuned to you, somehow transferring images into your mind. ink on skin. behind each ear is a letter: H. and K. in typewriter font. on the inside of his right forearm is half a kiwifruit, the placement making it easy to cradle it against his chest at night. painful memories of jorty's years gone by wash over you like a heavy wave. it makes you want to cry. further up his arm lies bubbles, arguably the best powerpuff girl. inner-left forearm; the virgin mary. lower back, to the left; stick and poke molar. his hands and fingers are bountiful with both fading and new tattoos, a good amount of them done by yours truly in intense bouts of boredom.
now there's flashes of metal through flesh: his tongue, both lobes, a cheeky nostril, just one ear.
suddenly, you force yourself to come back. he's gone.