Simon Susa (I mean it might be Simon Susa) is staring into a shattered glass mirror. Not that he is prone to such musing, but for some reason that eludes the grasp of his mind, he does not really know the face in the parts of the mirror that still work.
He lifts his hand to touch the foreign face and sees his hand bleeding . . . how did it get hurt? Why doesn’t it hurt more? He looks back at the mirror (where would one find a glass mirror these days?) and somehow it looks like it could have been broken by something like a fist. He moves his strangely numb hand to the mirror and it seems to fit into the center of the shatter pattern and . . . there is something written, written on the mirror . . .
It says, “If you knew a guy who could remove your tattoos, knew a guy who could hold his hand against the sky and wipe away past days, knew a guy who could erase your memories, would you do it?” (Written small, rather a lot, and hard to read between the shatters) He reflects on the mirror.
A man with no name, a man not unlike someone named Simon Susa, rinses the blood from his hands in a sink that is less than sanitary. At length he finds a clean paper towel and wraps the injured hand. He pulls his coat closer and decides it must be cold outside. Just before he turns, he reads the question again, smiles a smile devoid of any kind of mirth, and says, “yeah . . . I guess so.”