Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
He was staring into the gold-framed mirror we had bought at a garage sale on Elm Street three years ago. The glass still had three small water spots near the top corner that never seemed to come clean, no matter how hard I scrubbed them with vinegar. Mason did not look at me when I entered, but his right hand slowly rose to his collarbone, his fingers digging into the skin right above his gray sweater.
“My mother called while you were putting the folders away,” he said. His voice was very quiet, barely carrying over the hum of the old pipes in the wall.
“Well, she has been calling all week,” I said, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe. The bathroom still carried the faint, sweet scent of the lavender soap we had opened on Tuesday morning, a smell that felt far too peaceful for how my chest was aching.
