In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Wit’s End My father says, “Face it, you live in a civilization of mirrors and sinks,” invading my real room, the bathroom. I pull down an eyelid till I see the pained pink meniscus underneath. I “O” my mouth, poke the mascara wand at my eyelashes, not missing by much. It’s makeup’s premonition of sex in the house he can’t stand. The bathroom’s littered with eyeliners, tweezers, kisslipped tissues. I shed snarls of hair in the shower like saffron threads, red kelp. In the mirror I paint myself a clownface copied from Sassy,Seventeen,Glamour. He stands in the doorway, loving the used-to-be lovable -year-old formerly his.We look in the mirror: blush welts, orange, riding low on my cheeks, pink lipstick leaking from my lip-corners. Glitter-white chevrons for eyelids; Cover Girl fails again to cover my nose-zits. Reflected, behind me, tangles of the unwashed bras I don’t need trail from shower-rod, shampoo rack,  hot-cold dial, soapdish, stopcock. He hates it: me mooning, me sighing, me incessantly hairbrushing, singing stupid love songs. “I’ll buy back the gunk!” he says. He’ll pay twice what I spent if only I’ll stop. I stand by the tub in the bathroom, my real room. I prop up a leg, I pull up my skirt, start shaving thigh-stubble. I shove the door shut between us with my ass.  ...

Share