A story by alum Peg Alford Pursell (fiction, ’96) appears at Permafrost:
My own words woke me up the way it sometimes happens. Manny sat on the edge of the bed, shaving crème stripped away in swaths on his left cheek, razor still in hand. The water still trickled into the sink basin and the fluorescent light glowed miserably over the mirror. I turned away toward the windows. Between the crack in the motel’s heavy drapes the day was bright sunny.
“Active night,” Manny said. The mattress jounced when he stood and returned to shaving. “It sounded like your dad had a harem or something.”
I wasn’t sure I understood what he said, his words were garbled from the way he stretched the skin over his face to hold it taut. I rolled back over, and his eyes in the mirror contacted mine before flicking back to his own face, watching the razor move close to his mouth. Damp hair clung to his nape, a towel wrapped around his beautiful torso. He adjusted the water, rinsed the razor, and finished.
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