Face To Face

I stepped into the tub and turned the plastic knobs to somewhere between lukewarm and hot.

 

The splashing mild roar of running water noise pacified my anxiety, and tamed a bit my tension.

 

With eyes closed and face down, I stood with arms outstretched, one hand on the shower door and the other on the opposite wall.

 

The voices tip-toed in and painted the pretty faces of the women who crossed my path, the weathered countenance of the old man needing one more dollar to buy his Greyhound ticket out of town, a blond-haired girl who cannot be, the grey lioness-eyes of a siren that won’t sing, the forlorn hiding behind a feigning facade, the curious clamor of half-conscious cocksuckers, the blood I spill from men who have nothing left to fight for…

 

 

The endless text messages my cell phone receives remain inside that flat, cold rectangle–tiny monolith with bitten apple–and it tries to be my god. Why can’t I bow down, it wonders.

Some are lengthy from an old acquaintance explaining the new things they’re doing. Others belong to my sister, also endless, divulging information about our unimportant family. Clients who want me to do a particular job, and they wantonly wax on about their needs; the new window-shopping.

I try to keep up with them all.

 

The knobs are hard to find when I go that deep in the rabbit hole, but eventually do. And the water becomes scolding. It helps my tension.

 

 

But I can’t hear their voices.

I can’t see their faces.

 I can’t read their gestures.

No hesitation marks to spot.

No flirting to be flattered by.

I can’t be taken by the way their hair exults their stare.

I cannot be seduced by a tiny chip on her tooth.

I won’t wonder what if when those hips sway by accompanied by a biting lip.

No wonderful perfume to assume or warm vanilla to lead me to my doom.

No soft giggle to decide if to approach and then collide.

With pleasant platitudes and stumbling attitudes

I yearn for the old ways

of

 

face to face

∞