The surprising thing about
his discovery was that he was not surprised.
He already knew his life had
followed a certain trajectory. And he knew this had always been his nature but
he had never been so alone, in the skin of his predicament, as he was on that morning.
Even the cold surface of the
mirror failed to recognise him.
He shook his hand, in front of his face, hoping that movement might
translate into visibility.
It didn’t.
He opened the bathroom
cabinet, took out shaving foam, and covered his face.
The foam became a
cloud of indeterminate shape and meaning suspended in mid-air.
He clawed the foam off his
face, took up the canister and threw it at the mirror. Shards fell into the
sink and he slumped to the floor and started sobbing.
It was winter and the tiles
were cold and nothing could be heard but the dripping tap. There was a scent of
shaving foam in the air and a broken mirror that would be easily replaced.
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