I wonder how many times it has happened before I noticed. Immersed in my thoughts, brushing my hair, my teeth, I barely register them—my infinite copies. They do the same thing as me, so I ignore them.
Except sometimes, one of them isn’t doing the same thing. It’s hard to catch if you don’t know what to look for—a subtle bit of lag.
Now he won’t look me in the eye, as if he’s ashamed that I’ve caught him slacking off at work. As if he knows I’ll be watching. As if he knows he’ll do it again.
Author’s Note: In my old house, my bathroom cabinets were mirrors that looked into each other if you opened them up, so whenever I looked at myself there were infinite copies of me looking into the mirror. Sometimes I felt like one of them, hidden in the very back, isn’t doing what I think it should be doing.