He cleans his cut, pats his hand dry, and wraps toilet paper around the wound. He catches sight of himself in the mirror. It has always been strange, looking at himself in the mirror, and the exercise has only increased in strangeness the older he has become. He knows his face, and this is not it. How can you be inside a face for eighty-seven years and be surprised by the look of it every time? It suddenly occurs to him that everyone else knows his face better than he does. He doesn’t even know his own facial expressions. He tries angry. Sad. Happy. Worried. Contemplative. Missing. Wanted. But he can only see tired. So tired. I am never going to have sex again, he says. Not with this face. He closes his eyes, puckers his lips, and moves toward the mirror. He opens one eye, sees something like Death trying to kiss him, and recoils. Right, he says. That’s that. But Evie had loved him, and loved this face. He runs his good hand through his hair.
