myPortico

The day started like so many others. Blank, distant hellos. Empty sips from a hot cup of coffee. A mindless look at the morning paper.

Jack felt nothing and offered nothing. It was just another day.

He disrobed and turned the shower faucet on, but did not get in. He stood. Silently. Stoically.

Without thought, he turned and looked straight into the mirror. His reflection peered back.

He stared upon his face. His shoulders. His chest. His face again. Stubble from a day’s growth covered his jawline. Dark lines shaped his eyes. For the first time he saw his eyes cold and distant. It struck him hard. Surely it was not him he saw in the mirror this morning.

Is this how others see me?

He turned the sink faucet on. The sound from the rushing waters calmed him. First it was cold, then soothingly warm, then invigoratingly hot. He did not pull his hands away, but relished in the excitement.

He turned his hands this way and that. The drops of water danced and splashed in freedom with every twist and turn of his hands. He cupped his hand and the water collected. Pulled them apart and they splashed in one instantaneous rush.

Which am I? he wondered.

The water flowed freely but was at the mercy of his hands or any other solid object that crossed its path. He directed its course at his pleasure; at his will. But his hands, free to move their own expression were quickened by the presence of the water; made to feel warmth, emotion, energy, alive.

With each drop of water that splashed on the porcelain, he thought of her skin, her white, perfect skin. If she were here, what would she say? What would she offer? Would the touch of his hands affect her as they do the waters pouring over them now?

He felt a rush of blood coursing through his veins. It collected. Why now?

His hands became hotter as the temperature continued to rise. Which am I? he repeated to himself. Am I the actor or the acted upon? Which was fantasy and which was reality? The lines had become blurred. Untenable. Indistinguishable.

He looked up, staring into a mirror that no longer gave a reflection. Steam from the water’s heat long ago rendering it opaque.

“Perhaps,” Jack said barely audible, “I am who I choose to be.”

* * * * * * * *

Need to catch up? Or continue on to the next finished segment?
Read To act or to be acted upon…(Part 2)
Read To act or to be acted upon…(Part 3)