That night I shaved him for the last time, he was playing Bee Gees songs and I told him my story about the 45 of Tragedy and how every one I tried to buy was warped and how they came from that store by my house. He knew that store, too, the one that sold everything and doesn't exist anymore. Now I can't remember what the fuck it was called. Am I becoming senile? Early onset Alzheimer's from bad genes or too much antiperspirant?
I hate people to see my weaknesses.
That song played, Tragedy, and that guy's voice was really high and shrill and I had no idea what I ever saw in that song at all. I laughed at the song and told him to turn around so I could shave his back and the tops of his shoulders. He inclined his head just slightly, like he never does in real life, and it was beautiful. He looked like a captured slave or a giant brought down, defeated and shackled. He had a vulnerability and a humility I'd never seen before or since.
I asked him if he was mine, even though nobody owns anybody.
"Yes," he seemed surprised. "I let you shave me, don't I?"