Was it always like this? He could remember or could he looking in the mirror, wiping the steam away, and being disappointed. Waiting to see some stray hairs, some token of adulthood, pop up somewhere, anywhere.
Jealous of his friend Chris was it Chris with the beard.
Or what looked like a beard to a twelve year old.
Back then, it took him thirty seconds to shave unless what little he manage to cultivate into a fine down on his chin, just under the jawline. Now it feels like hours, every day every day. Not that he can have a beard at work anyway. They tell him it would be a problem who is they
What had he been looking forward to?
Work? When did that happen? How did he end up there end up where
He wished someone would have told him unless
In the mirror he sees grey. He never noticed it before- same with those wrinkles around the eyes where am I, the thinning hair. He doesn’t remember that happening- it seemed to him like yesterday he was staring in the mirror and willing himself to vault into adulthood. He smiles into the mirror help me as his image fades, subsumed in the steam.
Those teeth- they were straighter, whiter they changed his teeth they did they did
When he was younger they who was they where are they had praised his teeth. Complimenting his lack of decay. “No fillings again. Good job!”
She’s calling him from the other room. He was supposed to be dressed already. He can hear displeasure in her who is she voice and doesn’t remember that happening before either. He touches the glass, his fingers drifting along its wet surface different the glass is different
He picks up the razor.
His hand is shaking never shook before why
He runs the razor down his cheek.
Nothing happens.
He presses harder, runs against the grain, up from his neck towards his chin.
Nothing happens.
He looks into the mirror, wipes away the steam again where is it coming from
Was there more grey?
More lines on his face.
Had his eyes always been that color? Blue no green no wait wait wait
He looks down at his hand.
Spots?
He presses the razor against his face, hand shaking again. He presses harder, skin pinching against the plastic.
Nothing happens.
He holds the razor up. The blade is gone, the empty slot covered in foam, glistening. He drops it and backs out of the room.
The lights come on- glaring, forever.
Wait just wait please
I really like this one Matt, and whenever I stumble on words I don’t understand, not because I’m dumb, but francophone, (maybe it’s the same??) I add them to the poetic voice your story has. What’s there to understand about poetry anyway!? 🙂 Very nicely written my friend! Will read more later, and let you know what I think. I’ll tell you just like it is. Just like it is Matt. You’ll see I can rant too, don’t give me a chance to Matt, I’m not always this nice! Actually I am.