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Mid-morning light streamed in through the window over the tub, mixing with the steam floating out of the shower so that every drop of water sparkled as it condensed back to liquid in the air. On cold days John loved to keep the bathroom door closed tightly so that the room would fill completely with the steam as he bathed, then he would stand naked at the pedestal sink and wipe a clear spot in the center of the mirror so he could shave. The steam made the transition from the hot shower to the cold room less jarring; he needed a slow shift from sleep to being alert.
He grabbed a hand towel and started to rub a circle on the surface of the mirror. The condensing water streaked and dripped down the glass. He looked at his face, cupping his hand over his chin and feeling the whiskers. His beard was still soft, the way it had been when he first started to shave as a teenager. It pleased him that his face did not feel like sandpaper halfway through the day. He remembered his grandfather's face and the dark hairs that never seemed to quite go away, even though he shaved twice a day. His grandfather's face was so scratchy that as a little boy John refused to let his grandfather pick him up for a hug. Instead, he thrust out his tiny hand and told the old man "Shake!" Finally, when John was nearly grown, he embraced his grandfather at his aunt's funeral, both of them resisting the urge to cry. As their cheeks rubbed for a brief instant, the old man laughed, pushed John away and thrust out his own unsteady hand. "Shake," Grandpa said, and they both shared a laugh to hide a tear.
John pulled at the mirror to open the medicine cabinet and retrieved his razor and shaving cream, a sad little half-smile tugging one corner of his mouth. He hadn't expected that moment, and he was surprised at how lost in that reverie he was. He stared blankly for a moment, not really looking at his face in the mirror or anything else, just thinking about his grandfather and the hours spent with him -- watching him freshen up in the bathroom after getting home from work, sitting with him at the counter in the coffee shop reading the newspaper on a Saturday morning, curled up in Grandma's lap listening to him play his harmonica in the dark.
A knock on the bathroom door finally got him out of his head and he quickly busied himself lathering up his face. "I'll be out in a minute, I just need to shave. Don't open that door, whatever you do! You'll kill my steam!"
“Hurry up, Daddy, we're late already! I can't afford to miss the flight back to L.A., my boss will have my head on a platter!”
John sighed, his breath obscuring the little window he had made on the wet mirror. He swiped it clean with his hand and began to shave.
This is a wonderful story, Brian, with some great imagery and lots of heart. I'm enjoying writing vicariously though you this week. ;-)
Posted by shelley [URL] at 02/ 7/06
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