Little expensive piece of bathroom cutlery, I have shamed you.
I, with my furry legs, and you, with your new edges. You innocently lay, lonely above the shower. Hidden behind half emptied bottles of shampoo in which I’ve lost interest.
Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your stylish handle that’s intimidating me. It’s winter, and I’ve taken a pass. A feeling of guilt has suddenly struck, and minor panic at the element of time and the ration of hot water.
The teenage daughter, who has plainly staked claim to bathroom rights and turf, has left behind a token of her presence. Her long, tendrils of hairy graffiti are slowly showing themselves, as the tub begins to grow deeper and deeper with water. Only for a moment does reason set in – I’ve spent nearly fifteen dollars on that damn thing. I reach, higher. Higher still, toes curled on the edge of the soap dish that’s made it indented soapy home directly in the line of the shower’s stream. I can feel the round end of your bottom, dear razor. Are you cross? Why do you move further and further back? No sooner does the reality of the predicament I’m in become known to me, when, suddenly, and with little warning you decline my advances by attacking me with your army of plastic bottles. I slip.
The water has turned cold. I sit in a bathtub full of freezing, filthy water. Until summer, dear razor. Until summer…