orgasms of light


The Last Haircut (Maybe)


by Stanley Rutherford


Raymound handled the object carefully. He was meticulous in his observation of it. He turned it over in his hands and placed it on the table. He had left it there the night before. His handling of it was his first action of the next morning. Raymond's morning was solitary, as was his sleep. His exhaled breath mixed violently, but unseen, with the air. He breathed again.


The room was a rectangle -- walls sqaured with each other and with the ceiling and floor. The walls were white, the ceiling was white, the floor was wooden -- light absorbing, deeply grained wood. The events were not important.


The doors provided ingress and egress. One large window provided light in the daytime. One lamp with a yellowed, antique shade provided light at night. One door joined the room to the bathroom. One door joined the room to the kitchen. The third door joined the room to another room which was much like the first. The second room had two doors and three windows. There were no closets. There was in the middle of the second room a red rug. The puppy slept through the night on the rug. The puppy was white with black markings.


Raymond opened the curtains on the window in the first room, which was something he usually did not do until later in the afternoon. The ritual of morning solitutude is changeable; it transgresses established rules and is subject to impulse. Raymond yawned and scratched his back. 


He moved slowly through his morning. He showered, dried himself, opened the bathroom window to reduce the humidity. He brushed his teeth, but didn't shave. He dressed and took the puppy for a walk. He returned, fed the puppy and prepared breakfast. The morning light was greyed, unthreatening, filtered through an overcast sky.