The Unswung Bat

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

Mark arose from bed, spinning with forgotten dreams that circled his head, leaving webs of imperfect memories that the first glance of the sun, the first chill of tapwater would undo. His reflection in the mirror and the solidity of a glinting steel faucet were the lightest touches of corporeality that popped his mind like a bubble and brought his body to life.

I am late, he thought, because I laid in bed fifteen minutes past nine.

The faucet and taps made a jester's hat atop the sink basin, three-pointed: cold water this way, hot water that. Mark touched one tap and a stream jangled out the middle that he pooled in his hands and slapped on his face. The instant before the water hit him he imagined that his pores would contract and the hair uncurl from the nape of his neck, to protest the cold. All this made him pucker his face, but he smoothed it out with fingers that drew his cheeks gaunt, and the gone dread of cold made his bones tingle distantly.


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