The transparent glass had minor identity issues. It refused to identify itself as a mirror, but rather as a medium of communication.
Allow me to explain.
The glass thought being a mere mirror would underestimate the weight and the purpose of its being. So deciding that it wanted to be cool, it assumed to itself a distinct role, that of becoming a medium. Being promoted to “medium,” as opposed to “mirror,” also known as “reflecting glass,” it decided to take the act of reflection into a different level.
When a blondie walks in, the glass takes pride in its rebellious plan and contemplates the concoction of implementation steps. She sat facing it, first checking her own reflection. She was vulgar beyond recognition, not that it mattered to either her or the glass. On the contrary, the more the glass found out a detail it had originally missed in the woman’s face, the more it rejoiced at its potential, near triumph. It was perfect.
Two guys sit behind the blondie carefully sipping their coffee. In front of them lays the glass’s enemy, soon to be friend, a number one communications competitor (wait for it!! Drum roll? Unnecessary! BB, whatever that means). But together, they formed a formidable team.
One guy, wearing two round glasses around each of his eyes, which to the glass’s astonishment fit him perfectly (look at how they are cut to fine square pieces, or is it round?), looks about him. His eyes fall on the huge transparent glass, but only for a glance before two tattooed silicon lips (the blondie’s obviously) call his name.
Now you might ask how they figured it out? His name that is. I will let your imagination seek the answer and weave one of its own.
First they call him through the glass, triumph number one. Second, they smile at him, triumph number two. Then their eyes meet, yes! Through the rimmed glasses on the man’s face as well. Incredible huh? Then, Oh! Rejoice! Oh! Victory! They kiss through the glass, virtually, humbly, before BB complements the victory. What does it even mean?, thought the glass. How lame, out of all the words in the English language they choose the name of a fruit? But then again it works just fine.
She lights a cigarette, throws one assertive thankful glance at the glass in front of her, as in recognition to its efforts, a secret, ritualistic (even) bondage. She is thankful. They have triumphed. The silicon tattooed lips will now rest assured that they shall be kissed for real, though I can’t guarantee that they will actually feel anything.