Glamorama

He stares into the mirror at his naked body. His halved stomach reeks of imperfection, he thinks to himself. Thousands of abdominal crunches haven’t defined him enough, haven’t scratched the banality, that is his front. Bending backwards, he strains to cast shadows upon the blocks of his abdomen in the fading afternoon sun. He fails to see them. He lifts his arms upwards hoisting massive pectorals around his neck and faces his head towards the window. Occasionally, he roles his eyes to the side catching glimpses of his pirouetting self in the mirror. “Baby, I’m cool. Be cool. “, he mutters into the reflection, a tear seeping out of one eye – the one not seen in the mirror. He’s smiling now, towards the window - avoiding the reflection. He dislikes how it translates. Closing his eyes he imagines himself wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, sipping martinis in SoHo. Everyone compliments his outfit. Even Madonna. Suddenly his eyes open and he’s in darkness. All he can make out in the reflection of the mirror is the glittering of confetti which pours relentlessly from the ceiling above him.