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untitled
It is an unrequited love, the morning mirror. I lean over the sink
toothbrush forgotten in the shock of a too close perusal-
Blanket-faced, mapped, rivers it seems. A face that sleep has
shipwrecked, that dreams have plundered like an ivory coast,
robbed of sparkle, eyes dull, grey and squinting. All this
and skin yellowed by inconsiderate incandescence, the jaundiced
reflections of a 60 watt bulb. Makes a dear friend of distance
it does. I scowl, foam, my best rabid face. The teeth, scrub.
Driving to work I think about my husband. He always looks
fabulous in the morning, rumpled, sexy and young, bastard.
I look hard at other drivers at intersections waiting for the
light to change. Staring at one beautiful woman, I get caught.
She smiles sweetly, as if she somehow knows my thoughts,
understands the urge to gawk, to evaluate and compare.
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 Life's Home |
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Her hair is perfect, the platinum/gold/silver you can only
get with the skilled ministrations of a best friend in a top salon.
I wave, the flutter of three fingers lifted from the steering
wheel, turn left when I had intended on going on
but now must make the block to nurse my embarrassment.
I wonder what she looks like at her 5AM, grimacing, flossing.
Waiting in the drive through line at Starbucks, I consider
vanity. Am I vain? To the rear view mirror- Are you?
I decide I am not, only impressed and irritated that mr lucky
bastard looked so good, dripping wet out of the shower this morning.
I call him on the cell phone, ask him if he ever stares at pretty
women in other cars, and he says, absolutely never.
Which is a lie, but soothing and I tell him so and how I
appreciate his rico-suave lack of hesitation. Then
he tells me about a little black rooster he sees every day
at a driveway along his route. He is obsessed by that chicken.
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Coleen Shin  |
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