Razor Blades

Lying in the water, suds up to his chin, rustling and popping in his ears. His body singing stories of the night before. Drinking red wine on the train. She slapping him, him pulling her hair. Bruises on his arms and legs, scratches on his back. His lips are still tender. The smell of her there or just imagined?

Unwrapping the towel from around his waist he lifts it up to wipe condensation from the mirror. Clove fumes from the shaving oil pinprick tears from his eyes. The razor moves smoothly across his top lip, left side then right. Monday and Tuesday are shaping up well. Snag, bounce, reflex pulls his hand and the blade away from his chin before blood is drawn. Wednesday doesn’t look so promising.

Water gurgles down out of the sink. Swirls of cut bristle, a tide line of short hair. Eddies and counterflows, the next month, maybe two, mapped out.