Neil Whitcomb

Faisal Haddad's knees are the reason, though I would never say so to anyone. Fifty-eight years of them. For three minutes I stand in his kitchen in the dark, the refrigerator humming, his wife's reading glasses folded on the counter. The house is asleep and his boots sit by the door like two dogs. I put my palm flat on the table and a whole Sunday comes up, a cousin's wedding, a folding chair that would not hold him. The knee clicks when I shift. I wanted to be someone who could go down a stair without thinking about it. I wanted nothing in particular, only not this, and the page is open on the phone before I decide to open it. The wheel turns. Faisal's lazy eye drifts toward the window, and I let it.

Then the foam is on my lip.

Water runs. Mint, cold, a bristle scraping the gum, and I am mid-stroke on the left side with a toothbrush in my fist. The light over the mirror is hot on my forehead. The floor is cold through thin socks. I am tall, and thin, and I lean on one hip like a man who has always been told to stand up straight.

I stop. I start again on the other side, slower, working the back molars, because the jaw is tight there. It has been clenched for years. I feel the muscle let go, then take hold again.

The sweatshirt is soft and stretched at the cuffs. The sleeve against my wrist gives me a night: a hotel room in a city with no weather, a deck of slides due at eight, and him lying awake with the ceiling humming. Then a flight, a lounge, a laptop open on a ledge, and the loneliness of being good at something that nobody can explain to his mother. He bills a great deal and sleeps very little. He does not drink anymore. I get the taste of that, a decision made at a kitchen sink, and it is quiet, not proud.

The plaid pants are flannel, and they are older than the sweatshirt. They bring a Christmas, a sister's kitchen, someone laughing at the blue in his hair. He dyed it in this room, over this basin, the water running electric. It faded and he left it. It is the one reckless thing about him, and he is shy of it, and fond.

The sink's edge is cool under my hip. The tap hums in the pipes. Outside the window it is blue and early. Main street has one stoplight and it is blinking at nobody, and the diner stays closed. He loves how still the town is. He comes home to it like a held breath.

I rinse twice. The water in the cup is grey with old toothpaste. I stand the brush bristles-up on the clean shelf, and it feels like a small cruelty, undoing his habit.

I look at my hands. Long fingers, narrow wrists, a pulse in the thumb. The knuckles are smooth and the nails are clipped. They are nobody's I know.

I look up into the mirror, at the heavy brow and the hazel eyes, and say, "Good morning, Neil."

Nobody answers. I think about how long, and whether the wanting will come back by lunch, or tonight, or in four minutes. The tap is still running.