On Sunday Morning,
the hand soap and counter organizer are on the bathroom counter, but perpendicular to the back wall where the mirror meets the counter. Things are too curated. I cannot begin to brush my teeth knowing a hand that grabs the face wash from the rack would never leave it at such a perfect 90-degree angle to the wall. Instead, I shift the toothbrush holder so it is no longer facing perfectly straight forward, but more diagonal, twisted at its own spine.
I need to step on to the counter, unscrew the lightbulbs and wipe them down. I learned recently that I shouldn’t wash them with soap and water. That ruins the little spark on the inside. The one supposed to last our lifetime. This new bulb will likely last beyond us. It will likely also last beyond the lifetimes of the tenants after us. Will the new tenant see herself clearly in the mirror? I brush my teeth, then the face washing process.
I use the gentle cleanser in the morning, it balances the pH of my skin, and move my fingertips across my face in circles. I don’t have too much dead skin on my face. I exfoliate three times a week. I break the schedule and scrub on the days I wear makeup, bare down to skin and sincerity. When I watch television, I like to rub my dry hands across my shoulders and collar bones hard and fast until the skin warms and I get the fresh skin to come off. There is a burn to that red baby skin.
S worries about me.
There is a new wrinkle on the outer corner of my right eye. It’s only visible in my makeup mirror. I sleep on my right side. I’ve been trying for weeks to sleep on my back to no avail. Ki ar korbo?
S is confusing my count of how many wrinkles I have found under my eyes when I smile. He sits at the edge of the bathtub, unbothered about lines, creases, or drooping at the corners of the mouth. I continue with the lined-up bottles of toners and essences and serums and moisturizers and oils. I massage my face while he tells me about a car show happening nearby. There should be some classic Alfa Romeos. You’ll like that. In the mirror, there isn’t really a way for me to measure how deep my smile lines have gotten. I’ve told him so many times the gray walls of the bathroom make it hard to focus my eyes and see what’s really happening. We’ll go to the car show, but I don’t know if sunscreen is enough to protect me from the Southern sun. Here, I am an eccentric, hats and neck scarves and big sunglasses.
He has made it a routine for us to go out for bagels on Sunday mornings. I rarely have time to do my makeup anymore. But no one knows me here. Only our houseplants do. Bagels first, then the cars, ok? The sun tumbles in as I open one shade after the next in the kitchen. I wipe the leaves of the vine plants and spritz them with water. I eat a banana and watch S as he sits on the sofa, scrolls through his phone. He doesn’t hear the noise from the days all clanging together, the decibel of it all making my eyes and nose dry. I should drink more water.
Ok, ready, cholo.
Photo by Nsey Benajah on Unsplash
