Shaving.

I took a rather over pronounced shit to the coy piano of an early Mozart and then, staring into my shaving mirror, took an over long look at the shape of my mouth. Certainly, it was my father's. I had once taken the slight downward curl of the mouth as a mark of disdain for much of life but, today, examining myself for any involuntary twitches, I had to accept that my mouth was less a reflection of contemporary culture and plainly more to do with the old man. And while I left the bathroom with no plan other than a few mind games with Gareth, a quick grope with Helen and an earnest display of concern for the hypnotist, at least I was awake to the death ahead.

Gareth was in the garden, smoking.

I think Helen's depressed, he said.

With that, he flicked his butt into the bucket. We were finished and I maintained my momentum past him, up the stairs, and into my room. I felt no concern that Gareth knew of my affair with Helen, in fact a spread of warmth came over me as I reached for the Four Quartets, almost relieved and somehow justified, settling in my chair and reading the words as if for the first time. By the time I reached Little Gidding, I had began to pity Gareth, always the maid to the matriarch.