Where I Find Myself

     As the blades snap together, your ears tune into a crack and two soft taps. It happens so fast, there’s no way you could’ve kept your eye on the tiny projectile.

     Lets see, the first tap, more than likely, was the product of it hitting the toilet, the second tap, it hitting the wall. Or the tub. Or the vanity.

     You kneel down and smooth over the small green rug with your open hand. Your fingers swim through a sea of wet fiber. It’s not here. Putting your nose to the floor, you study grayish-green grout lines cutting apart smooth white tiles. Here and there, you stop to dissect small knots of hair and grit with your one finger. No luck.

     This is like a fatal car wreck without a single witness. Under the light of the moon, with the blacktop reflecting the pink glow of road flares, an investigator will re-create the scene. Now, here, in the bathrooms fluorescent glow, diffused by this cloud of steam choking the air, you must conduct your own investigation.

     Your foot was here, like this. You held the clippers here, at this angle. So, the trajectory would then be. . . To the right. Towards the wall. It would have first hit the wall. 

    Then the toilet?

    Copyright © March 2008 Chris La Cour