by Hannah Retallick
eggs and coffee
Out of the
bathroom you walk, cheeks full of it.
Steven, why?
You shrug at me
with a confused expression, wearing the twisted red towel as a scarf. What?
What do you mean
what? Your face.
Huh? You put your
hand along your jaw, stroking your chin to a tip.
Your face, I say
again. You haven’t shaved.
You shrug, rolling
your shoulders, which means I’m right. It curves round your jaw, stretches up to
those rank sideburns, nearly reaching up your nose. Black dots, some long enough
to have been there far more than a day. Is your eyesight worsening? Those
glasses would fix it, or the contact lenses. You don’t care, you just don’t
care.
You forgot, I
murmur.
Story of my life.
Yes.
The towel lowers,
and you flick your head, hurling droplets; the bedroom mirror needs a windscreen
wipe.
Do you have to do
that?
What?
You know what. And
go back and shave. Today of all days.
You tousle your
wet stringy hair, which hasn’t seen a barber in far too long. My birthday was
it? Or the last anniversary?
When you getting
up?
When I’ve had
breakfast, Steven.
You remember then.
Hand to jaw again, covering it up, hiding.
Oh! you say
through your palm. I’m so sorry. Muesli?
Eggs and coffee.
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