autobiographical scene a la David Foster Wallace (sort of)

Originally written Sept. 23, 2009.

Bathroom scene. Standing in front of the mirror, hips level with the sink, not quite ready to wash the hands in water too hot so that the faucet needs to be readjusted for the right temperature mid-wash. Looking into the reflective glass in front, taking stock of the body seen. Long hair, amber red, having darkened on its own through the years, starting out as more of a light strawberry blond in its youth, now spilling down over the shoulders, around the cleavage peeking out from the strategic V-neckline of the turquoise-teal athletic shirt that hugs tightly to the body. The breasts beneath are rounded, pushed together by the black sports bra invisible underneath the turquoise-teal facade. The abdomen below the breasts is wide and fills the tight athletic shirt, but not to the point of bursting. It gives the impression of a body that is full, strong, well built; but instead is often given the more "feminine" names for a body not fitting in to the familiar and acceptable status quo: "plump", "chubby", or "roundy." Bare arms, freckled with moles, and a mosquito bite on each arm, closer to the wrists, sufficiently scratched at so that each has slightly scabbed over. A band-aid is wrapped halfway around the right forearm, giving the unrealistic impression of a wound much bigger than it really is: a scratch from the weekend that was picked at absentmindedly and has subsequently continued bleeding. It hasn't stopped yet, briefly bringing to mind a red flag for anemia, yet quickly dismissed as hypochondriacal thinking. An elastic hair-tie, coincidentally the exact same color as the athletic shirt, still hugs the right wrist after having been removed over an hour ago.

The face. Passive in the warm, soft, yellow orange light bouncing off the marble counter top of the sink. The eyes: softly ringed from slightly smudged mascara which dissolved about an hour before during an emotional release while in her yoga class; the instructor had come by while the body was in savasana, took hold of the ankles, one in each hand, pulled them gently toward her body, and then softly guided them to the left and then to the right, slowly, subsequently moving the legs from the calves to the thighs, all with this gentle movement of back and forth, from left to right. It opened up the hips, creating space, physically, emotionally and spiritually in those broad sockets that for some unknown reason had been tight. The emotional release, non-dramatic, subtle, but no less powerful, followed after the feet were pressed back to the floor, toes pointed outward, ankles relaxed against the soft yoga mat.

Hands washed and dried. A sniff, then the just clean hands are run through the hair, styling it momentarily. The body turns toward the door, face still turned towards the mirror, perfecting that over-the-shoulder pose that everyone seems to comment on positively when captured photgraphically. But before the hand reaches for the knob, or maybe just as it rests on the knob, before it hears the familiar click of the lock snapping out of place, a thought occurs: He'll never call.