Laura Rodgers
The Loon The old man rubbed away the steam from the mirror, revealing his wrinkled face. The glass was cold underneath his sun-spotted palm. He peered at himself closely. His eyes were the color of dirty ice, like muddy snow that is too stubborn to thaw in the spring. They were the only thing he recognized about himself anymore. His cheekbones were thin and his eyelids sagged. His head was shaved but white pricks were beginning to hug his ears. Hell, it felt like his hair decided to stop growing out of his head and switched to his nose. The mirror was cracked in the corners and hung above a pink porcelain sink. The bathroom had barely enough room to turn around. If he wanted to, he could have gone to the bathroom and brushed his teeth at the same time. It was almost four in the morning and sleep was like a siren’s call to his heavy eyes. He quickly dried himself and pulled on his one-of-two pairs of jeans with a plain, white collar shirt. He had almost forgotten a belt again, but his wife had made sure he packed it. He could hear her voice shouting, Jay, don’t forget your belt again! He slipped it on, the well-loved grooves making it easy for his shaking hands. Parkinson’s be damned, he would always be a fisherman.
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