Razor and Radiator

Razor and Radiator

On days like this I take a long time shaving. Nadia's left for classes
hours ago, leaving me alone in the apartment. When she leaves it's not
our apartment anymore, just hers. All the essentials are still there: a
slot in the holder for my toothbrush, a place beside the couch for my
slippers, my white shirt, ironed for work, hanging from the knob of the
closet door. If it were warm enough I'd wear it home unbuttoned. She
likes that; it makes her mouth smile and her cheeks flush.

After she leaves I stand at one end of the apartment looking through
the blinds at the sunny streets crusted white with winter salt. Then I
walk to the other end moving in and out of rooms like a ball rolling
through a tilted maze. On the computer I have three different email
addresses to check. I check my bank account online, too. The numbers
make a record, every transaction summarized: cash for the trains,
cigarettes, food and clothes for both of us. I only spend on the
essentials. In the kitchen there are dishes to wash, hers and mine. I
get the pots and pans and Tupperware out of the way first, then the
dishes and silverware. I save her glass for last, rubbing the soap on
with my bare fingers where her lips touched the rim.

I visit the bathroom regularly, use the toilet, take a long shower. I
brush my teeth twice. I bought the newest razor on the market, and I
savor shaving. If the commercials were true I'd start flying after the
first stroke, floating horizontal with one hand stretched out like a
wing while the other keeps shaving smooth. Nadia would walk in, float
up beside me and kiss my baby-smooth neck.

There are other commercials, too, ones that tell me what I'm supposed
to think about when I shave: girls with their heads cut off by TV
frames showing fat, shadowy cleavage in red bikinis, red sports cars
and red lips, slap shots, slam dunks and home runs. But I never think
about any of that.

My life flashes before me every time I shave, my eyes in the mirror
like two screens flashing image after image. But it's never the past,
always the future, always a different future. I drive to work, sit at a
desk under piles of paper, my hands scratching pen marks here and
there. I interview, twist quotes, write stories, make up stories. I am
a reporter, an editor, paperback writer, fashion designer. Sometimes I
stand under the hot sun swinging a grub hoe digging for God-only-knows
what and spraying dirt up to my chest. Nadia is always there. She loves
the ink on my fingers, the dye from fabric on my hands, even the soil
in my work shirts. Sometimes she's at work and I'm home, toddlers
climbing on my knees as I punch keys on a typewriter. Sometimes we sit
in the living room on chairs at opposite ends staring across a mess of
crumbs and juice cups and baby toys. We have tired, happy eyes. Our
smiles come slowly and grow big.

I am always loath to clean the razor and put it away, to rinse my neck
and splash on aftershave. The fragrance drives the visions from
head.

After I've showered and shaved, brushed my teeth, cleaned the kitchen
and made the bed, covered up all the scents and lingering things, I am
ready to leave for work. I'm ready to go, to punch the clock and wait
the hours by till I come back and she'll be home again. I button my
wool coat and turn the collar up to face the cold. As I close the door
behind me the apartment is silent save for the regular ticking from the
floor where the radiator sinks and stretches the wooden boards.