Just The Three Of Us

“Do you believe in God?” I ask.

        I shake my head no.

        “Why not?” I ask.

        “It’s hard to put into words,” I say.

        I look hard at myself and think about it. There isn’t an obvious answer. When I shake my head, I notice that I look sad.

        “Never mind,” I say.

        “I’m fine,” I tell myself, resting my forehead against my forehead.

        We stay that way for some time. The glass is smooth and cool, but it starts to feel sticky after a while, so I move away and wipe the smear with a hand towel. There’s still a slight smudge which moves about my face as I move.

        “Feeling better?” I ask.

        “What do you think?” I shoot back.

        I smile. “Sure,” I say. “But a nap wouldn’t go amiss.”

        “I just woke up.”

        “So?”

        “I don’t know what your point is,” I say.

“You’re not looking your best these days,” I tell myself.

        “I know that,” I say. “I know that.”

        I sound more defensive than I meant to. I shouldn’t have repeated myself.

        “You sound defensive,” I say.

        “I was just thinking that,” I say back.

        “I know.”

        I have a point though. I have put on weight. I don’t shave as often as I used to either. And the skincare products Rosey bought for me aren’t being used now that she’s gone.  

One of these days.

One of these days I’ll get around to exercising more regularly. I’ll fix my diet. I’ll care about these things.

“Will you though?” I ask.

“You tell me.”

“I wouldn’t like to speculate,” I say.

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

I lapse into silence and take this chance to brush my teeth, trying not to focus on the bags under my eyes. I rinse and spit, watch myself rolling my tongue over my teeth. Smile. I’ve looked better.

“Have you had any more thoughts recently?” I ask quietly. I sound sly, insinuating.

        “Thoughts?”

        “Yes,” I say, looking hard at myself. “Thoughts. You know what I mean.”

        “What do I mean?”

        “Have you been thinking about violence?” I ask.

        “I try not to.”

        “I didn’t ask what you try,” I point out.

        “What are you trying to do here?” I ask myself.

        I smile. I shrug. I feign innocence. “I’m just asking questions,” I tell me. “No harm in that, right?”

        “I guess not.”

        “Unless you’re hiding something…”

        “From you?”

        “Are you trying to?”

        I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “I’m going to take a shower,” I say.

        “Behave yourself in there,” I tell myself.

        “Shut up.”

With the hot water running and the curtain pulled for privacy I feel better. I start to relax. But I can feel eyes on the other side all the same. Waiting for me to come out. I start to whistle, but I’m a terrible whistler. It’s best to give up.

“Feel better?” I ask as I step over the rim of the bath and onto the mat, which is damp. I should wash it soon. I take a towel from the rack. It should also probably be washed, but it’s the last one there.

        “Sure,” I say as I start to dry myself. “Why not?”

        “That’s good,” I say. “Maybe we can talk more now.”

        “Always talking,” I say. “It’s early.”

        “It’s not that early.”

        “It’s early enough. For me, at least.”

“I’m just trying to help you,” I say, but I don’t like the look I’m giving myself. I could be up to something.

        “Help me how?”

        “Any way I can,” I say. “Especially after last time.”

        “I don’t want to talk about last time.”

        “Of course not.”

        “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, more riled than I want to be.

        I smile at this and nod, as if I’ve made my point. “Be honest with me for a moment,” I say.

        I don’t say anything. I just look at me.

        “Nothing to say?”

        “Why don’t you tell me what to say?” I ask.

        “So touchy.”

        “Not at all.”

        “Well then,” I say. “Can we get to the point. The meat and bones, as they say.”

        “I don’t care what they say.”

        “Of course you don’t,” I say. “You never have, have you?”

        It feels like a trap. “No,” I say, hesitantly.

        I clap my hands. “That’s good. It’s good to be independent. To be your own man. Isn’t that right?”

        “It is.”

        I smile at me. Warmly perhaps.

        “You know,” I say. “I wish you wouldn’t always push things.”

        “I know,” I say.

        “Then why do you?”

        “You need it,” I say. “You might not like it, but you need it.”

        “Why do you say that?”

        “You have to learn to analyse your actions, to understand them, or they will never develop.”

        “You think that I don’t think?”

        “I know that you think,” I say. “But your thoughts and your actions are not connected properly.”

        “I think that sometimes.”

        “I know.”

        “It’s like…” I wait for me to continue. “When I do things, I think that I know I’m doing them, but then later, I don’t think that I did know. They seem like a movie. Or a photograph. Does that make sense?”

        “I know exactly what you mean,” I say.

        “And you think I need to change this?”

        “I think that thinking, and the understanding that comes with it, is a safeguard against consequences.”

        “I see.”

        “You don’t seem convinced.”

        I sigh.  

        “I don’t know. I like the way things are.”

        “Do you though?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

        I hate when I pull that face. I look so smug.

        “It’s the way things are,” I say.

        “That doesn’t mean anything,” I point out. “Anything can change.”

        “And if I just want to continue?”

        “Maybe that’s something we should talk about.

“You talk to yourself too much,” I say.

        “So do you,” I counter.

        “Touche.”

I leave the bathroom and go into the bedroom. I put on underwear and go into the kitchen and pour a drink of orange juice in a glass from the draining board. I put ice in it and stand there, holding it. I feel self conscious. I’ve made myself feel self conscious. I know I’m not in the best shape of my life, but there are so many things to take up time. And besides, it’s not as if I’m unhealthy. Maybe I should have said all of this.

        I feel restless.

        Do I need to change? Can I carry on as I am unimpeded, or do I have to rethink? Does everything need to be planned? Thought through?

        I go into the living room with my drink and look out of the window. It’s a grey day out there. It’s going to rain soon. The windows need cleaning too, but I don’t want to do it. Maybe I’ll get someone round. I think there’s a leaflet in the kitchen door. The one that came through the letterbox some time back. I don’t think I threw it away.

        I don’t see anybody outside, which is good. It’s a quiet street at the best of times and the weather is getting more and more ominous. As the skies darken and rumble, I start to see the ghost of my reflection. I’m everywhere.

I go back into the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m still there, as if waiting for my return. I look at myself and I look back at myself. It doesn’t seem like I have anything to say right away, so I decide to go first.

        I lift my hand and point at my face accusingly, very close to the chin. I’m going to have my say.

“One more thing…”