Chemical Intimacy


I cut a friend's hair about once every two weeks. Trying to get as close to the skin as possible, I shave his head while he charmingly sits cracking jokes. Doing my weekly maintenance of his hair cut, I am struck with the memory of someone else. I remember A calling me over to his dorm. It was late, maybe 3:00 a.m., when he called. His deep, drunken tenor rumbled over the phone, asking me to come over and shave his goatee. How could I refuse when I'd been the one telling him he looked like Satan with it, and he needed to shave pronto. I walked through the warm September night to his dorm, where he snuck me in the back door. I followed with trepidation, wondering at the anxious knot in my stomach as I rushed upstairs behind him. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the shower room where he had set everything up and hopped up on the sink in front of the mirror.

There was a lot of history between us, and I wondered how he could trust me with the razor as he placed it in my hand. I slowly opened it and stared at the pearl handle letting my eyes wander to the metal blade gleaming in the florescent light. Grabbing my wrist, he pulled me between his legs flashing a grin so wide, I was sure I could see his molars. He asked softly, "Promise not to slit my throat?"

"You deserve it, ya' know," I answered, trying not to tremble at our proximity- failing miserably.

The grin faded. "I know."

The shaving cream was heavy and thick as I smoothed it over his face. My breathing grew unsteady when his tongue flicked out to lick his lips, narrowly missing the white, frothy substance I'd just applied. Anger, love and hate were surging through me while, with unsure hands, I gently began the process of scraping the goatee off of his face. His deep, brown eyes focused trustingly on me as a familiar heat grew between us. It had been a long time since I'd touched him. Years, to be exact, and I was tired of pretending it didn't matter. As I pulled away from his newly shaved face, he grabbed me an pulled me into a kiss. He tasted like scotch, cigars and himself. I threaded my fingers through his hair and pulled him closer.

I'd forgotten how it was between us. A furious fission that melted my reason, and my knees, ignited as his hands cradled my lower back and lowered me to the shower-room floor.

Memory is an assailant pouncing on me at an ill-timed moments. My friend cheerfully grins at me in the mirror as I finish. With shaking hands, I put away the razor and flee upstairs to wonder how many others are haunted by ghosts like mine.