Mirror · the first record
Two people. One mirror.
She is hiding behind him on purpose.
— Charlie, archivist
a love letter in seven chapters
narrated by Charlie,
the golden retriever
a record of the early days
For the record: I'm Charlie. I'm a golden retriever and I live in this house. In March she started acting different — same breakfast, same homework, but when her phone vibrated she looked at it like food. I will document what I observed.— Charlie, witness
I know when it started. The question is — do you?
Two people. One mirror.
She is hiding behind him on purpose.
a record of her study habits
By April she had a routine. School ends, phone rings, FaceTime, homework. There is a beverage in her hand. There is always a beverage in her hand. I have observed the pattern. I have my theories.— Charlie, observer
She drinks one of two things. Every day. Pick one.
Wrapped, half-hidden, still waiting on caffeine.
Filed under: morning, pre-functional.
a record of one Sunday afternoon
They made ravioli. From scratch. There were eggs. There was flour. There was pesto inside the ravioli, which is — I am told — Italian. I observed flour on the floor for three days. I would also like to be told what flour tastes like.— Charlie, kitchen-adjacent
Find what went into the ravioli. Four words. Drag across them.
Two backs. One stove. A great deal of flour.
I was not invited to dinner.
a record of his attempts at French
She speaks four languages. He speaks one and a half. He tries French anyway. I do not speak French either, but I have a strong sense that what he is saying is not what he thinks he is saying. The following is a translation guide.— Charlie, linguist (unlicensed)
Match what he said to what he meant. Tap left, then right.
Up close, no French is required.
They communicate by proximity.
I respect this.
a record of one particular afternoon
On a Saturday, he brought home flowers. He did not bring them to me. I have no comment on this. He took her to the beach. He took photographs of her. She let him. Briefly. Three statements about that day follow. One is a lie.— Charlie, investigator
Three statements about that afternoon. Tap the lie.
White carnations. Purple petals.
One soft "yes" to the camera.
The light cooperated.
photographs, mostly unauthorized
A pattern. In every attempt to photograph her, she does something — a hand, a hood, a turn, a hide. There are exceptions. I have collected ten photographs. Swipe through and observe. This is the preparation for Chapter VII.— Charlie, archivist
ten photographs, mostly unauthorized
She rated the pesto. She did not rate the photographer.
He posed. She protested. Both decisions stand.
Palm fronds. Two faces. Three fingers in the way.
A hallway. A selfie. A diplomatic withholding.
When all else fails, the photograph is of the backs of two people.
An embrace from behind. Her face: not on camera. Strategic.
In the hoodie. Behind the sleeve. The hoodie is the strategy.
He came along to a hair appointment in a tie. He is the only one smiling.
She brought him to pilates. He brought a camera. Mostly cropped out.
Exception filed. The beach. Golden hour. She is actually looking at the camera.
She doesn't usually let him take her picture.
This is one of the few times she did.
Charlie thinks she should let him do it more often.
the summer
Charlie will write again when you're back. Travel safely. Eat the pasta.