"How'm'I s'posed to shave in here?"
I shout over the hiss of the shower.
"The mirror's all fogged up."
"Rub some soap on it," she replies
in between shampooing and conditioning
with a nonchalance a Buddhist monk would envy.
I pick up the bar next to the sink
and take her advice
mumbling doubts under my breath.
Sure as the sunrise
it works: I can see my ugly mug
more clearly than I'd like to.
"Thanks, Babe," I offer meekly through the plastic curtain.
"No problem," she responds with a splash over the rod.
"Now hurry up and shave so you can get in here."
It's the first of many miracles that I'm sure are yet to come.
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